


Overexposed and Electric

by TotemundTabu



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 09:49:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 74,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4387199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotemundTabu/pseuds/TotemundTabu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis and Antonio meet as children over summer and start a weird friendship that could become something deeper. They are both horribly afraid to be hurt due to their families and, not wanting to lose each other, end up in a net of silence and doubt. During Francis' research for The One, their emotions clash.</p>
<p>--- HUMAN!AU CONTAINS SEX BETWEEN CONSENTING PARTNERS but also underage characters into sexual situations, since the course of the story goes from when the main characters are 10 yo to when they are 26  The story also often changes the time of narration going back and forth in time ---</p>
<p>"You must keep in mind that men are weak and we call love the lust and the fear of solitude, as, alone in the huge desert of stars that is the universe, our eyes meet the ones of someone as lost as we are.<br/>And that's the miracle we search. And that's our contract with the devil."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. FIRST AND SECOND CHAPTERS

Come on, come on and let me in.  
The bruises on your thighs like my fingerprints...  
and this is supposed to match  
the darkness that you felt.  
I never meant for you to fix yourself.

\- Centuries, Fall Out Boy

 

* * *

 

**Overexposed and Electric**

 

“Are you here all alone?”

As Francis turned, he saw Antonio walking towards him on the balcony. His green eyes stained from the cheap sadness of alcohol, the smirk sharper and braver for the late night.

“So it seems.”, he sipped a bit of his wine, then pointed with the head at the sky, “I was admiring the fireworks, but it seemed they passed already.”

Antonio stared at the empty black night, breathing in the breezy air that finally lifted the muggy and sultry veil off from that July day.

“It's quite rare for you. - he couldn't find any stars – Usually, you'd have your little flock waiting for you in some corner.”

Francis chuckled, his voice getting darker and more liquorous at every second.

“I feel a bit old for that stuff.”

Antonio nodded, smiling in the glass and, in a quick raise, finishing his drink.

“Are you sure it's over?”

“Pretty much.”

Antonio shrugged his shoulders, “It's not that bad. It's just an end, and you know what they say about them...”

Francis gave him a bitter smile, before returning to stare at the wide horizon of darkness.

“You need them to have a beginning, I know.”

“Come with me. - he murmured, with a friendly smile, reaching for him softly – Let's go to _Les deux Magots_ , we'll drink something stronger: a Chartreuse verte, some anise or a Bombay Sapphire...”

“I don't feel like it, Toni.”

“Well, that's what we do: we drink, we talk, you find a new boy or girl, we drink a bit more, and in a bit, you are fine and I...”

The weak expression on Francis' face went from pained to plainly annoyed, “Really, not this time. I'll go home, instead, we will speak tomorrow.”

His voice sounded subdued, yet firm, icy and dense like the blood coagulated from pain and poison.

Antonio masked anger behind a cheerful grimace, “Sure, don't worry. - he gave a laugh too loud and harsh to sound honest – When you feel like it.” . Francis pretended to believe him and slipped away from the balcony, like a shadow, in utter silence.

“...if you ever will.”

 

* * *

 

 

_First Chapter – A smoldering Violets Scent_

 

You must remember, before entering in this story, that not all of the things we do have reason in them, and most of them lack also of dignity.

You must keep in mind that men are weak and we call love the lust and the fear of solitude, as, alone in the huge desert of stars that is the universe, our eyes meet the ones of someone as lost as we are.

And that's the miracle we search. And that's our contract with the devil.

You must remember, before entering in people's lives, that all of them are pathetic and fragile, like children, reaching out for a blind mother.

As the summer leave their veins and they are left with autumn, they panic and tense, searching for repair and comfort. All men are alone and all men are terrified to be.

That's why, I suppose, Antonio and Francis crossed their fingers the first time they met, running away from their uncle Cesare, a bit drunk from his own wine, that followed them shouting for picking his apples and grapes.

Antonio was a bit older, he took pride in his few months gap, and taller of a couple of centimeters, and advantage he still was bitter about losing; he came from Spain with a big truck, when his mother decided it was better so for everyone – she didn't ask him, but she was an adult, which gave her that kind of privilege – and reached the Pyrenees with a small luggage that barely held clothes and books for that one summer, let alone the years to follow. Francis, on the other side, arrived with his father holding his little hand and a car full of suitcases, because mister Bonnefoy wanted his son to know the taste of the countryside before spending his years in the big city; useless to say, Francis would have rather spent all those days strolling around monuments and art pieces, but to him it was just a summer and not a lifetime, so he decided to avoid giving his parents another reason to bicker about and smash another set of glasses.

Uncle Cesare was not exactly an uncle, he was their grandfather, but not the kind you truly want to invite at family events and that, for sure, is not eager to participate into them. He had other two squirts of his loins, in Rome, where he was born, but he left also them behind, just like he did with every thing he had in his life. He used to talk about Midas, the king that made everything gold as he touched it, but then discovered he couldn't ever eat nor kiss again.

That summer, with the June sun breaking cracks in the earth, uncle Cesare welcomed the two ten years old into his big house, between the Pyrenees and that was one of those moments when two small gearwheels meet the first time and starts roughly, badly, before finding a way for their dents to fit and work together.

Francis remembered the day Antonio arrived with a distinctive feeling, like when you find out some people don't have their life together at all.

He was in the living room, playing at the off-tone piano, while his uncle was munching on apples too ugly to be sold at the near market; as the truck honked at the gate to enter the small property, he startled and jumped off his small chair, staring at his uncle, “Weren't you waiting for a parcel?” to which he nodded. Outside, on the dusty street, covered of a pale yellow dust, with his hair all ruffled and a shirt a bit too big, was standing a scrawny boy with reddish eyes and snot.

He looked so lost, Francis felt so too.

He was around his age, but his face looked younger, like a baby, and he was darker, tanned in a dirty gold, and all full of angles and pointed. He looked like a skinny kitten with a shirt someone else left him in.

His small heart skipped a bit and he held his uncle's hand.

“Antonio! - the man shouted, changing his expression visibly – How are you?”

“I'm hungry... - he whispered, tentatively – Do you still do the chicken?”

“You have to break his neck on your own, if you want it, but sure. - he laughed, happily – You grew up so tall, you must have almost reached that spineless asshole that married your mother. For sure, your penis is bigger than his, by now. How is the ball-less sack of daddy issues?”

“Great: I am here!”

“I see... you're a smart boy. - then he turned to Francis – Fran, this is Toni, he is the son of your mother's step-sister, Sofia. Toni, this is Fran, the son of Magdalene. I hope you two will get along better than your mothers...”

Francis peeked a bit, running with his eyes all over Antonio once again, curious, thrilled and doubtful. He was never a shy kid, but he never met before someone who seemed so genuinely unhappy: Antonio didn't have a scratch or a bruise, yet he looked like he was about to cry out of an uncontrollable pain, blowing inside him and swelling his heart.

“Hello...”

Antonio stared back at the other kid: blond, clean and bright. Francis looked like an angel from a cathedral painting, with his curls reaching his shoulders, and a pair of eyes so blue he didn't think they could have existed. His skin was tanned, but way lighter than he was even in winter, and his lips were as pink as a girl's. He looked... graceful: he was wearing a nice shirt and even his shorts seemed new and perfect, just like the rest.

He felt angry.

“ _Maricón_.”, he hissed.

Francis frowned: he knew very little Spanish. In his house everyone spoke French, so he learned some with his uncle, together with Latin, during his summer there, but he couldn't catch what the boy was saying. That word to him was nothing, but uncle Cesare seemed to hate it and started yelling at Antonio to never say anything like that again.

The other one was sent to a room at the upper floor to put his stuff in the wardrobe, while Francis returned to his piano, hoping to learn the new song for that evening.

While Antonio was upstairs, though, the song seemed to have lost any importance, and Francis played distractedly, tiredly, before turning towards the older man and ask, with hesitation, “Uncle, what happened to him?”

“Ah... well, what do you mean?”

“He doesn't look like he is fine.”

The uncle took a breathe, poured some wine in a glass and, after a moment of silence to check they were alone, proceeded, “You know that I love your mom and Sofia the same way, they are my tender daughters, and to me it never mattered Spain, France, with whom I had them... right? - he coughed – Cause a father loves his children all in the same way, but this doesn't mean that they get loved by others. Sometimes, some of us, are unhappy, and everyone has their sheer of bad luck in this world. With your mom it was... well, you know, and now her and daddy and not being nice to each other. - he paused again – But with Sofia, there never was someone to fight to start with... and now she has this... this boy... but he is no good for the kid. And I... I prefer him here. Do you mind?”

Francis shook his head.

“Good boy.”

“Uncle...”

“Yes?”

“I don't think he likes me.”

“A wounded animal doesn't like anybody, sweetie. - he drank a bit – Give him some time.”

The following days, Francis tried to approach Antonio candidly and nicely, offering some food, piano lessons or to share books he had, since his uncle confirmed him that Antonio's French was pretty good. His invitations for tea or walks or riding horses always got refused, though, leaving the boy with a bitter taste in his mouth and a sense of emptiness.

From time to time, Antonio would still hiss that word at him or look at him badly.

What Francis found most upsetting were, though, his clothes: Antonio wore many bright colors, pure red and blues and yellows, as unnatural as the simplest wax crayons, but looked more and more gloomy each day; not only that, but they were also very ruined and old, like he didn't have a change of wardrobe in years. Francis decided that, since his mother has a clothes shop, it wouldn't have been a crime to give some of his own to Antonio, because – he figured – he would also have been upset if he had to wear something ugly every day... and how can one feel like starting a new chapter with the costume of the previous ones still on?

So he took some shirts, a pair of trousers, and left them on Antonio's bed, finding them again on his own, without any further comment.

Starting to feel ignored and not being used to his influence being zero, Francis one day decided to step up his plan and entered in Antonio's room, with a huge basket of cherries and the full smile that got him whatever he wanted from the new bike to the fifty euro allowance extra.

“Hello! - he shouted, half-singing, finding Antonio on his bed, with the telephone guide in his hands, legs crossed and burning eyes – I thought you might want some of these, maybe we could eat them together.”

Antonio didn't seem tempted, not even slightly.

“Uncle is down in the town to buy some milk and bread, so... I mean, eating alone is so sad... being alone in general is kinda ugh... so here I am. Do you mind keeping me company?”

“You sure are needy.”, Antonio commented with a gelid smile.

“Ah... everyone is in need of something.”

“You crave companionship like a dog.”

Francis started to get angry, biting his lips and tightening his held on the basket until his knuckles got white, “I seem to have missed the part in which you explain how come it would be bad.”

“It's pathetic. And I have stuff to do.”

“Really? - Francis gave him the sharpest giggle he could produce – Reading the telephone guide because you're too stubborn to accept a book? Staring at the walls and the ceiling until you've imagined all the best scenarios that your life won't have? That all sounds so exciting, I'm mortified I'm interrupting, but I'm not really sure what's more pitiful between craving attention and... this.”

Antonio stood up, fists closed, clenching his teeth.

Francis snapped, “Oh, stop it, you look like a kitten, not a tiger. - he dropped the basket of cherries in Antonio's lap – Look, I don't get why you don't like me, people usually adores me, and if it's for some decent reason, fine, but if it's because I'm offering you cherries, duh, you might want to reevaluate your methods of judging people.”

“You... are just a spoiled brat. You're some rich kid and you feel so interested in me just because I'm ignoring you.”

“... yes, pretty much. - he smiled – But that's kind of your best option of company right now. - he seemed to get sad – I'm spoiled and self-centered, but I'd like to share stuff with you and spend a nice summer. You seem sad and I don't like being sad, so I suppose you don't like being like this either, do you?”

Francis smiled again and Antonio felt his stomach dropping.

An heavy sigh filled his throat, as his lips trembled and his mouth filled with a weird, sobbing, wet, “No.” .

Francis picked a cherry and put one against Antonio's mouth.

He smiled, “They are sweet, I promise.”

Antonio nodded, filling his mouth with an handful of fruits and then spitting all the seeds in an empty glass, provoking the most honest expression of disgust on Francis, that gently picked every time the seed from his mouth with a small gesture.

“... your mom lets you do that?”

“She taught me.”

“My mom scolds me if I don't bite everything three times, she said a gentleman must be proper.”

“Your mom sounds like a pain in the ass, no offense.”

Francis sighed, “Can I ask one more thing?”

“Sure.”

“Please, don't insult me using words I don't know. It's coward and I don't like it. If you think something, say it so I get it.”

Antonio's cheek flushed red of shame and guilt, “Ah... _Maricón_ is just...”

“I don't want to know for this time. We didn't talk. But keep this rule for the next time, ok?”

“Ok.”, he promised.

Francis smiled, he moved his legs happily in front and back again, like he was going on the seesaw.

“So... do you want some books?”

“Which ones you have?”

“Right now, I'm reading Oscar Wilde's complete works, I especially loved The Salomé. - he looked at the ceiling with a dreamy expression, while Antonio was not sure what books he was speaking about – But I also liked The Little Prince.”

The other frowned, “I see...”

“What's your favorite book?”

“The Tigers of Mompracem. It's an adventure! With pirates and battles and rebellion! All the really cool things! - he seemed excited as he jumped on the bed – Sandokan and his friend Yanez have to fight against the British imperialists! I read all the books of the series.”

Francis blinked.

“Ah... what are you looking at?”

“Finally you stopped being grumpy! - he smiled – Tell me more about this...”

“I... Do you even like adventure books?”

“Not the slightest. - he pouts, suspicious – Unless there is some kind of charming thief or so.”

“Bet you like girly things.”

“Uncle says only men with overcompensation issues worry about liking love stories.”

Antonio shut up immediately, suddenly convinced by the wise words of his family member and decided to trust them.

“What else do you like to do?”

“Riding horses, I like walking and finding nice things and I enjoy fencing...”

Antonio's eyes lighten up, “Then you also like to explore and play adventure.”

“I wouldn't define it so... I find it very elegant, like an ancient knight.”

“Ok ok, you can be a knight and I'll be a pirate. The important is we can play together!”, he stated, finally happy and satisfied with himself.

Francis gave a small, chirping smile, and didn't dare to tell him knights and pirates were not from the same time period. He enjoyed Antonio's eyes getting greener and brighter.

For a moment, he could forget his mother and the divorce he was not supposed to talk nor know about. He could just feel the fresh drops of a relieving summer rain.

Francis and Antonio started playing the days off, pretending to be free and without the chains of the life waiting for them after August, singing songs Francis brought from Paris and Antonio from Madrid, teaching each other about different books and comics, sharing words and dreams.

One day, after they ate fruit destined to the market, uncle Cesare followed them in the fields with a slipper to slap their butts with it and yelled at them to stop and never do it again. Antonio was the faster one, but Francis knew better how to cut between trees avoiding to be seen, he could vision quickly the better road and, like a squirrel or a deer, run without leaving any trace, while Antonio kept panting behind him, hoping his chubby uncle to be lost.

They found each other next to a huge rock with a deep ravine under that melted into a hill full of grass and blueberries bushes. They stared a bit at each other, knowing they already won their small race and they were safe, but with their hearts still beating fast, like drums trying to reach the sky.

Francis caught Antonio's hand, and Antonio clenched it stronger.

And then they made a small jump that turned into rolling, like stones, down the small hill, then directly between the blueberries, at a few steps from a fresh river that wet Antonio's pants, while Francis was laying down, laughing hard.

His chest felt open, his heart free, as he was laying there.

His hair were full of leaves and his clothes dirty, Antonio was probably going to get angry at him for being wet, but he felt happy.

The other boy didn't seem to mind, he just frowned, because he never saw someone laughing and crying at the same time, and he didn't dare to ask for explanations.

Antonio was simply bewitched.

He could not stop staring at Francis, suddenly he seemed so much more than simply himself. He was not simply bright, he was shining.

His hair was kissed by the sun, his blue eyes appeared deeper than a lake, and on his now tan skin Antonio could trace constellations between small freckles. All of Francis body was shaken by laughter and he had that expression, like nothing else in the world existed but them.

And Antonio never felt so.

He never felt included in such a special bubble, nor the only approved guest of it.

As Francis stopped laughing, slowly, his smile got more brushed and shy. Antonio lingered with his eyes on those soft lips.

He shivered.

For the first time, the smell of Francis' violets shampoo seemed to really mesmerize him.

Antonio felt his stomach burning. And so his lungs.

As if the air became flames. Or as if Francis became the sun.

When they returned, hand in hand, singing half in French and half in Spanish, the shock was so big that the uncle forgot to punish them and just let them go into their rooms, which, soon, were a bit of an useless division. Francis and Antonio started sleeping in the same bed most of the nights.

Some nights, Francis would say he has some drawing to show to Antonio, who, on other nights, would claim he has to read to Francis a specific passage from a book.

And so they spent that summer, in speaking and playing and dreaming, falling asleep staring at the ceilings, on which they drew the different constellations of the two hemispheres. They would point stars and call their names and pretend barriers didn't exist and the sky was over them and easy.

And when August came, they hoped time would have stopped too, but it didn't.

Francis had to return in Paris, Antonio had to stay with the uncle.

They wished for wings, because birds could have met halfway.

 

* * *

 

 

_Second Chapter – Sugar and Wine_

 

After some tiring years, during which the two boys exchanged letters and called each other on the phone, with a stubborn intention to never let that bridge between them fall during the cold months between summers, Francis got a computer and, since his parents after the divorce barely talked, he obtained two and gave the second laptop to Antonio, so they could have also saw each other on the camera.

It was almost easy, at first, seeing each other on the small window, recognizing the familiar traits and pretending to be closer until June came to them, full of promises.

Francis had grown a lot and quickly, losing that graceful and androgynous look that made many people mistake him for a girl during his childhood, and with him grew his appetite for love.

He was barely home, but when he was, he was almost clingy with Antonio, asking if he wanted to keep the cam on while they read or draw or study. Antonio started to play the guitar and Francis imposed him to always make him listen when he exercised.

“Will you come this year, right?”

“Yes... - Francis smiled – I'll bring you some stuff from Paris.”

“You know I don't like presents.”, Antonio chuckled.

“I don't give you presents because you like receiving them, but because I like making them.”

“That makes little sense...”

“You'll remember me. - Francis smiled bitterly – Isn't this why people makes presents? Asking sorry and getting remembered? And I have nothing to apologize for.”

“Stealing my heart.”, Antonio joked in a low laugh.

Francis blinked, his eyes getting winder in a twitting shock. Antonio laughed it off , showed his tongue and, after calling him “vain”, returned to play.

Francis felt empty, but shrugged his shoulders, swallowing it.

“...but. - Antonio rose his head from the guitar, meeting Francis' deep eyes beyond the screen – If I could be there, next to you, I'd be truly happy. I'd never be... alone.”

And that's how, at fifteen years old, at the end of the fifth August, dense with the same joy and the same heavy misery of the past years, Francis used his smile to get whatever he wanted and Magdalene convinced the step-sister to send Antonio to live with them to Paris.

Francis and Antonio were watching a movie and commenting how unbelievable it was, when Magdalene entered in the room, smiling, softly. She always had her way to do things, like she was dancing, with a natural grace. She was a woman with always a perfect lipstick nobody could recall seeing her correct.

“She said you can stay with us, as long as you keep studying Spanish and I don't try to seduce you.”

Francis jumped, joyfully, his hair long until half of his back, curly and soft, bounced with him, as he hugged his mom.

“Thank you, you were amazing!”

“I had to give up prison but it was worth it. - she jokes, winking at Antonio, that also hugged her – It is obvious, though, you'll have to convince Sofia from time to time... I can't promise is forever, but at least you'll have a better house and education than... well, a mountain town with goats around the school.”

Antonio smiled, “Most of all, I won't be alone...”

Magdalene blinked, recalling Francis saying exactly the same to convince her. Antonio, cheerfully, went down to find something else to snack on during the movie, jumping off the stairs with an energy they rarely saw in him.

“...looks you like you really found each other.”

Francis nodded, “For the first time, I can't wait to start the car tomorrow.”

“Fran, sun of my heart, remember if Sofia changes her mind, we can't force her...”

“I know, I'm not a child anymore. - he frowned – I... I just feel it's better this way.”  
Magdalene smiled, “Sure it is. It's just you have many friends, I never saw you putting up so stubbornly for something similar... like you had only him.”

“We sorta... belong to each other... - Francis mumbled, confused, caressing his hair – It's hard to explain properly, but without him I feel I have less of me too.”

His mother didn't seem certain she could grasp it, but she decided to not inquire more, “Finish the movie and go to bed. We have to wake up at six tomorrow morning and you know I hate to drive while everyone else sleeps.”

“I promise.”

“Fran.”

“Yes?”

“Promise me also another thing...”

“Sure. - he mumbled, perplexed – About?”

“Whether you and Antonio stay friends long or not, remember, and end sometimes is not bad, but it's what you need for a beginning. Don't think if things go bad or different than what you wanted, then it's all bad.”

“Mom, you're getting sappy.”

“Sorry. - she kissed his forehead – I always forget you grew up.”

“I let you forget it.”, he smiled, holding her, trying to keep her all together. Francis always had this sensation with his mother, that the second he would have stopped holding her, she would have crumbled in a thousand pieces.

And he felt so tiny, so thin, so in need to put her together and never let her pieces fall. He kissed her forehead for the good night and sat on the bed, waiting for Antonio to come with food.

Antonio, though, took a bit more time, trying not to invade that intimate space between Francis and his mother, which, since the divorce, had grown more morbid and more fragile every year. Francis took on his shoulders every bit of his mother's love disappointments and Magdalene started hoping for her son to not become an adult as fast as he was.

Antonio respected that space, because he didn't have it, and envied it a bit. As a kid, he would have felt angry, because, when his father went away, all his mother did was searching other men, instead of him. He never felt needed, yet, he couldn't envy completely the burden of knowing you are needed by someone.

It also struck him in the guts like an iron bell of truth what Magdalene said just before leaving: growing up.

And then, he had to wait, to sit by the side and look at Francis a moment, without being seen back.

They grew up.

Francis, so delicate he could have seemed an angel or a little girl, was starting to have hair on his chest, more than him, and, while still being lanky and thin, his shoulders appeared and grew big and manly and his waist started to be more defined. Antonio's eyes lingered, almost burning, on Francis' iliac crest, on that tense skin and soft flesh, like a lagoon of desire. He stared at Francis' soft hair, now so long, yet, couldn't betray anymore his traits getting the ones of a man. His hands became big, strong – the long fingers were now often wearing rings of a cigarette butt, and Antonio was not sure he could tell himself he didn't find it sexy.

He liked him.

He liked Francis.

And not only as the kid to play knights and pirates with, not only as the guy to share albums and books with or to speak about stars with.

He liked how Francis laughed, he liked how Francis sniffed at sad scene, he liked how Francis' hands felt entwined with his own – and these are not things you like about your step-cousin friend.

And he, he was growing up too, and somehow there was the darkest point of the whole thing: he wanted Francis to notice it. He wanted Francis to see him as an adult, to like him, with his laugh, his weakness and his body. In the true way.

He entered the room, “Hey, I got your favorite: clafoutis.”

Francis smiled, “Whoa, thank you!”

Antonio sat on the bed, crossing his legs and staring at Francis, while the younger started tasting the sweet, letting the cream and the cherries melt in his mouth.

Antonio hesitated, nervous, shivering a bit, “Fran... can I ask you a thing?”

“Night of big speeches apparently... - he mumbled – Sure, go on.”

Antonio's voice came out hoarse, “Did you ever... you know... do it?”

“Well... - Francis faked an experienced voice – I did some parts of it, but... - he suddenly returned honest, his adolescence painting his cheeks red – Not all of it. Not yet.”

“Ah...”, Antonio felt left behind, “You didn't tell me about it.”

“I wanted to do everything before telling it! - Francis defended himself – She wanted to stop, so...”

“Charlotte? - he seemed a bit bored – I don't like her. She is shallow, can you even speak with her about stuff?”

“I tried to introduce her to Sartre, but I am not sure she appreciated...”

“So... where did you arrive?”, he asked, morbidly curious, coming closer.

He could feel Francis getting a bit embarrassed and it made him more aroused. Francis was always the charming boy, at the town all the girls creamied their panties at the idea of a date with him, but to see him vulnerable and doubtful that was his privilege as friend. Nobody except him could see that Francis.

“Well, we did oral... and I touched her, but that was it...”

“No dick inside, basically.”

“Basically. - he sighed a bit – But it's ok, you know, we were considering doing it when I returned, so...”

“Oh.”

“And you?”

“Ahm... I...”

“Did you kiss that boy you liked?”

“Not really, no. - Antonio swallowed, remembering the boy who never existed, who was only an excuse to come out to his friend – But I am not sure I want to. I mean, what if I suck and he laughs at me?”

“You won't suck.”, Francis' chuckle was dense, unwillingly low and sensual.

“I never kissed.”

“It's not astrophysics. It's like... a form of art.”

“I suck at painting.”

Francis frowned, “...mh, would it be cheating if I kissed you to instruct you?”

Antonio felt his feet crumbling under the weight of his sense of guilt, but he couldn't stop. It was a race and he wanted to win it.

Fuck you, Charlotte.

“I don't think so... I mean, you're bisex, but I am just a friend and you're not doing it for yourself, so...”

“Good point, but... our secret.”

Antonio nodded and closed his eyes, perking his lips slightly. At the sigh, Francis giggled silently, sure he was taking it so seriously. It was just a silly thing.

Even if, as his glance fell on Antonio's lips, he couldn't fail to notice how nice they seemed and how soft and sweet. Francis often had people commenting his lips were full, but Antonio's ones were not only that but so luscious, so fleshy, that Francis for a moment forgot who they belonged to and he closed his eyes too.

He could smell the scent of apples and irony water on Antonio's hair, the gentle spray of rain and grass. As their lips touched, it was a ballet of silence and equilibrium.

At first, a quick touch, a peck, and the separated, then Francis returned on them again, slowly, licking them a bit inside, pulling slightly inside his mouth. He places his hands on Antonio's cheeks, feeling him trembling and then pushing against him, eager and fearful. Francis sucked his lips a bit, licked them, kept the taste of raspberries inside his heart – it was like a car crash of souls.

A second after, they were quick, fast, greedy. Francis started pushing with his tongue, Antonio moved his head, letting him more and more space, reaching for him. He pulled his hands at Francis' neck, keeping him close, he invaded his mouth too, trying to steal a fragment of that summer that Charlotte wouldn't have ever had.

He would have liked to keep him there forever: his Francis, for a little while. He would have liked to become the air he breathed and Francis would have been the blood in his veins, like blood in the glass of life.

They searched for each other, for a pair of lips never appeared sweeter and more addictive.

Francis opened slowly his hand, letting his thumb caress Antonio's jawline, his fingers hold his cheek and neck. He could feel his wrist burn against Antonio's skin.

He tried to fill him, to fill his mouth with his tongue, to feel all of his mouth, to make it his own. Antonio started moving closer and closer, searching for a deeper contact, for a hotter touch. He let out a low groan, while he would feel his soul verging to pour itself into Francis'.

As the sound came out, though, the spell was broken.

Like the strikes of midnight, cruel clock, stupid reality.

Francis separated, panting slightly and whispered a breathy, “You see, I'm sure you can... handle it... fine.”

Antonio didn't have the courage to ask for more, still trembling for an unexpected blessing and bliss.

Yet, he wanted more.

“Fran...”  
“Yes?”

“Can we share a bed tonight?”

Francis seemed suddenly a bit shy, he laughed nervously, “I... just sleeping, right?”

“Obviously!”, Antonio laughed.

The other seemed to shrug off, with a smile, the awareness that the kiss went overboard and they gave into it way too much.

Because Francis had this habit, he always did, of noticing everything before others and then, if it was too painful for them, to just ignore it and mask it, as if it could have spared them.

So, deciding it was just a case and that the kiss had felt as way more than expected only for him, he smiled and nodded, “Sure. But let's finish the movie before.”

Antonio stole a bite of dessert with Francis' fork. It was too sweet for him, but he couldn't resist it nonetheless.

He went under the blanket, waiting for the movie to end, with Francis from time to time shivering a tear away or moving, happily, his feet.

“...Fran.”

“Yes?”

“You are my family, somehow.”

“You are more than that.”

Before they both could predict it, they fell asleep – Antonio curled up, as always, keeping his back very close to Francis in a sort of defensive fetal spoon, while Francis moved from a side to the other slowly, sucking his lips and grinding his teeth; the dreams of the first fell heavy as the velvety night, but Francis kept moving, letting out disturbed moans and half-harmed whines.

He felt weird, like the heat were burning in his veins, slowly, steadily.

He couldn't help but feel tightened up in a moist, suffocating corner of himself. Like a faceless nightmare sat over his heart, pounding into it and slowly melting into his system; he was completely abandoned into the anxiety that trembled over his bones and veins, rushing all around in him.

Francis got lost in his dream, wandering through an infinite turquoise space, running faster and faster without seeing any change at the horizon. Suddenly, the gooey space seemed to tighten up around him, like quicksand, filling his mouth and pulling his limbs into the thick ocean of nothingness. As also his head fell into the goo, though, the air felt easier to breathe and he fell onto a luxuriant, thriving wheat field, matured, gold under a sun he couldn't see.

He was there, laying on the ground, unable to move, once again. He panted, struggled, but words didn't come out – just weak, wheezing, rasping rattles.

In a second, he felt a rustle and felt his groins and loins hotter than before.

Out of nowhere, Charlotte appeared, beautiful as always, with her hair the color of wheat, naked, with her boobs rubbing against his cock. Francis bit his lips, until he bled, feeling suffocated and aroused at the same time, as the girl proceeded to lick his erection – enveloping sweetly the tip in her full and wet lips– and rubbing her chest against his balls.

“Christ-”

Francis arched his feet, tensed his back, throwing his head behind, while the tension shook his spine, in the pleasant torture of an almost-reached orgasm. His blond curls shone slightly under the scorching sun.

He clenched his fists, while his knuckles got whiter and whiter, holding onto the sheets. He could feel his own breath run faster and thinner, struggling, gasping one over the next one.

Francis suffocated a deep groan as, satisfied with her preparations, Charlotte penetrated herself with his cock, riding him, fast since the start.

He closed his eyes stubbornly, opening them only as he heard Charlotte's voice getting deeper and deeper, her moans darker and her screams, melted in pleasure, started to sound too much like...

There was Antonio.

Instead of his girlfriend, now, riding him, moving his hips, fucking himself over his pulsating, throbbing cock, was Antonio. Francis was about to comment, but the Spaniard smirked, put a finger over his lips to shut him up and whispered something Francis couldn't catch.

But his words felt like flames and darkness. They felt like red wine.

Antonio's ass kept swallowing more and more of his erection, desperately asking for more, filling itself and rocking like it need to be tore apart. Francis could feel his arousal grow bigger inside Antonio, while his friend moaned loudly in Spanish, arching his head on one side.

Francis couldn't resist any longer and started thrusting deep, rocking his hips so strong that Antonio's screams felt sharper. He sat up, held the friend's butt and, pushing it down, kept penetrating him deeper and deeper, harder and faster, until Antonio's expression melted in a lewd open mouth with the tongue hanging and his eyes rolled onto the sky.

Francis grunted, pushed, getting addicted to how warm Antonio's ass felt all around his erection. After a harsh thrust, he came into him, flooding in white the ground.

Antonio stared at him, smirking, with an obscene expression of after-glow and greed, then, climbing toward shim, whispered in his ears.

“You want more, don't you?”

Francis woke up with a start.

His skin was shivering – the pearls of sweat on him felt piercing cold as the wind of the summer night came through the half-opened window.

He kept his mouth agape, mouthing something without letting words out.

As he lifted a bit the sheets he saw his boxer briefs wet in cum. His mouth was dry with panting and he could feel his hips still pulsating from time to time with the need to thrust.

He turned towards a sleeping Antonio and felt the shame growing roots and branch out like ivy on his face.

“Shit...”

He stood up and opened his drawer, searching for a pen and his notebook, writing quickly on it.

 

And I was

thinking about

how your skin

glisters

in

the sun.

Drops of

gold

I'll never drink.

A forbidden fruit I'll

never

devour,

no matter

how

deeply

hunger corrodes

my stomach.

 

He shook his head, unsatisfied and deleted it with lines, then writing under again.

 

And I

I did feel you.

You let

drops

of scorching sun

in my mouth,

letting me shiver

for

the taste

denied

by the morning glow.

My soul

is corroded

by the

half-lived

pleasure.

 

Francis deleted that too, angrily and threw the notebook away: writing at 3AM after a dream like that was clearly useless.

That wet dream, or, more properly speaking, a wet nightmare, if such a thing ever existed before him, shook him out of denial and left him embittered and scared. His hands trembled.

He knew he shouldn't have kissed Antonio; now he was even more confused than before.

He just wished he could have not seen him for a bit before starting to live under the same roof and he couldn't shrug away from his body the sense of dirt.

Maybe he should have just pretended things never changed, ignoring them, but it was not his forte. And he was not sure how to handle seeing Antonio as more than a friend with some blood in common.

Would it even be... permitted? Ok, they only had their grandfather in common, whether they called him so or not, so it was not much, but that was just the start.

Antonio came out to him some months before, but declaring he liked a boy... so he liked someone else, which killed his chances.

Also what was this guy like? Would he even be Antonio's type?

And he had Charlotte, who, sure, was not going to be his wife, but he did feel something next to her – she was warm and funny and beautiful. She was all he should have wanted, after all.

He shook his head and decided to write her a text.

 

To: Lottie

I want to see you soon... I miss you awfully.

 

From: Lottie

Why are you up at this time?? Lemme guess, still reading? I miss you too.

 

To: Lottie

… yes :P , sorry I woke you up, it's just I was thinking about you and...

 

From: Lottie

You return tomorrow, right? <3 My parents are away until Monday so...

 

To: Lottie

I couldn't dream anything better... I'll make sure to make the evening enchanting enough to belong in the life of such a beautiful creature. <3

 

From: Lottie

You can be so corny... C: good night, chouchou.

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

_Third Chapter – Saturated, overlooked, twisted_

 

* * *

 

Antonio swallowed heavily. He could feel his throat harsh and dry.

He started to curse himself for that stupid idea of convincing Francis to come out and dance with him, because, yes, Francis didn't want to come. For being a womanizer (and manizer too) , Francis was extremely snob about his approaches: he disliked discos or anywhere unrefined.

His idea of a perfect evening was a museum or a theater piece, a nice restaurant and then a romantic walk under the moon. He usually swooned older people exactly for this sophisticated tastes he had.

Antonio preferred much more the loud music, the fiestas, the drinking until morning and skinny dipping in the Seine, but for that night he begged Francis to come.

Not that Francis never went out with him during his wild evenings, but usually he has a limited amount of fun, drinking a bit and enjoying conversation, more than moving on the dance floor.

And Antonio couldn't explain why that evening he did it, but he did: he made Francis drunk.

It took him four bottles of wine, two kamikaze shots and an undefined number of Bob Marleys, but he managed... and the result, oh, the result was scientifically amazing, but emotionally signing up for hell would have been a better idea.

If sober Francis was a flirt, drunk Francis was so lewd Antonio had blue balls from staring at him.

He started to giggle, giggle for fucks sake, and his grin became so big and wide, Antonio felt he could have been swallowed in a second. As if this was not enough, they went out with his University mates, who found it both arousing and entertaining.

Sadik, a Turkish Erasmus student, with the eyes big as the moon and the skin the color of ground cinnamon, kept smiling at Francis, sensually, yet kindly, like if he couldn't imagine break him and yet decided to fuck him wildly until that would have been the obvious outcome.

“Hey... - he said, in his thick accented French - … you're very pretty, you know?”

Francis smiled, satisfied, biting a bit his bottom lip, “You're quite a hunk yourself.”

Sadik whistled, while Antonio stood up, “Yes, yes, okay, that was very nice, let's go home now!”

“What? - Emma protested – It's just 1 AM, Toni. Don't you think it's too early, Abel? - she looked towards her brother: an almost-two-meters tall wardrobe with a rabbit passion that was ferociously making out with his Japanese boyfriend - … also Abel thinks it's too early!”

“Fuck you, Emma, Abel doesn't even know in which hemisphere we are right now.”

Sadik came closer to the Frenchman, smiling sweetly, “You have at least to dance with me for a couple of songs, if you want me to let you go.”

“I'm no good at dancing.”

“With your hips, I think you could dance awfully and still be the best thing that ever put foot on this dance floor.”

Antonio fumed, “Sad, sorry to break it to you, but regardless of how Fran is behaving right now, he usually tops, I am not sure you are interested in that, are you?”

Sadik winked, “I don't mind a bit of switch even in the same evening. - he smirked at Francis, then came closer to his ear – It's going to be fun, come on.”

Francis nodded and followed the Turkish man, a bit doubtful of his own movements.

Antonio bit his lips angrily, much to the surprise of a young boy next to him, a skinny albino dressed like a rocker.

“Ex-boyfriend?”

“Eh? - Antonio blushed – Nah, nah, dude. He is my best friend. Since like... always...”

“Oh. - he seemed curious – Since how long do you know each other?”

“Ten years.”

“That's an awful long time. - he took a sip of his beer – So you were... protecting him?”

“Obviously.”

“... from a great fuck?”

“Look, Fran is not the type. - Antonio chuckled bitterly – He may have many flirts and had many... experiences but he is not the one night stand type. He likes romance, you know? He'd regret this.”

“I see. - he drank more, nodding to himself – I wouldn't worry, though, mister Aladdin there seems pretty into him.”

A weak laugh shook Antonio's throat.

“The name is Gilbert, by the way.”, he said with a friendly and sympathetic look.

“Antonio.”

He replied quickly, still worried about the outcome of the whole Sadik situation, but mostly terrified by how much Francis' limits were demolished by the alcohol. He was moving smoothly, feverishly, as if he completely let go of any sense of being watched. Francis was working the hips that Sadik complimented with the mesmerizing force of an expert harem concubine, swaying his waist slowly and gently, moving his head to the rhythm of the music as if he was completely alone in his room.

The other man looked like a wolf that is going to have the best lunch he can remember to ever put his eyes on.

Antonio felt a deep sensation of burning in his chest, a renewed sensation of losing.

He got almost – yeah, not really – used at Francis having girlfriends or some really passive boyfriends he would chase and fuck senselessly. A couple of times he even masturbated to the moans of them fucking in the room next to his own.

But having Sadik craving Francis also that way, the idea of Francis getting violated by someone, the idea of Francis trembling and shivering under someone else's touch, no; he couldn't bear that. Sadik even claimed he didn't mind switching, so, now, in Antonio's mind both images kept running, overlapping and crashing: Francis thrusting into Sadik and the second reciprocating the favor, making Francis – his Francis – come both ways.

While he never did in any way.

“Whoa! - Emma shouted, excitedly – This is getting graphic!”

Antonio's jaw dropped as he saw Francis grinding, he tried to reply but he couldn't help being both bewildered and embarrassed at the vision. Francis was rubbing his ass against Sadik's crotch and the other couldn't hid anymore the wood hardening. As the Turkish tried to hold onto his hips, though, Francis seemed to regain some domineering spirit and turned, this time rubbing their crotch together, slowly, and then starting to suck greedily then dark neck.

Sadik's expression became half-pained, as he felt unable to hold back the arousal anymore, while his erection became evident to those surrounding him. He could feel Francis' lips marking his flesh, they were burning him, sweetly and strongly.

He grabbed Francis' ass, fondling it, and whispered something to which the Frenchman smiled proudly.

In that moment, Antonio saw a sight he never had before: a glance, scorching as liquid metal or pure fire, wet in desire, dense like honey. Francis had the most sensual bedroom eyes he ever saw... he couldn't experience that side of Francis, the one that makes your knees feel weak and your cock hard as rock, the one that is courting you and cornering you in the same moment.

That side.

The side he never had. The side he would have died for.

Sadik had it.

Antonio clenched his teeth and prepared to go stopping them, but Gilbert held him by the corner of the shirt.

“What?”

“Just friend, remember?”

“But- this is not...”

“Why do you want to stop this?”

Antonio felt his tongue melt, faster than his thoughts, “Because we belong to each other.”

Emma pretended she didn't ear anything, but her eyes turned towards the Spanish friend.

Gilbert seemed amused and awkward, “Does he know?”

“...he... he used to be the one who said it the most.”, he murmured, slowly, as he saw Francis and Sadik going behind some red curtains of a private sofa, with a certain joyful haste.

And Antonio knew he would have done anything to be on the other side of those curtains, with them if not instead of the other man, kissing Francis, sliding between them, being filled with the bittersweet taste of an humiliation from the one he craved.

But he didn't say nor do anything.

It was not that much different than usual having Francis fucking someone, while he stood there, in line, waiting like a fool. He swallowed the sour grip of loneliness and ordered a new drink.

Emma came closer to him, “Are you alright, sweetie?”

“Do you think they're going home together? Should I leave our apartment free or something?”, he hissed, bitterly.

“Honey... I'm sorry I insisted for you to stay...”

“It's fine... he is just a manwhore.”

Emma frowned her eyebrows, strict, “You're not together, he doesn't even know that you...”

“I nothing. I don't anything, clear?”

“Maybe you should tell him. - her voice got softer, but then she decided to drop the topic – Why don't we go somewhere on the bridge for a bit of fresh air, mh?”

Antonio didn't seem to be reached by her words.

He just kept remembering the list of Francis' lovers, how much each of them hurt him deeply, how much he pretended to be fine. He remembered Francis crying on a couple of occasions, letting out small sniffs, quickly hidden by one of his melancholic smiles. He remembered Francis caressing his hair once, in a cold winter night, his mind navigating somewhere far away; he was humming a song with his low, velvety voice, and Antonio felt home.

He felt home in those arms. He always did.

But he started to realize that, probably, to Francis that bond they had was really merely friendship and nothing more. Not even a slight tension, not a certain shiver, not a doubtful moment ever.

His heart sank.

Antonio felt he lost it somewhere between his ribs and the void.

Francis' bedroom eyes kept haunting him and making him both aroused and on the verge of tears.

“I'll go home... I need to sleep.”, he claimed, rushing out, followed just by the confused looks of the others.

Despite his plans, Antonio couldn't find a way to sleep: he lingered between sharp thoughts and sensual scenarios. He couldn't stop imagining those two having sex on every surface of the club or of Sadik's apartment.

He started watching TV: the voices, the stories confused themselves, merging, but he still couldn't fall asleep. He decided to pet the dog, but it was no use.

At 4:45 AM, when the darkness filled the whole city as a dark heavy water, Francis arrived home, a bit shaken up. His hair were ruffled, his clothes put on a bit briskly. He looked beautiful, but Antonio couldn't stop the anger from digging emptiness into him.

He gave a small smile, “Hey... still up? Were you waiting for me?”

“I couldn't sleep, that's all.”

“I see... - Francis seemed to worry – Are you angry 'cause I focused on someone else? I'm sorry, Sadik was...”

“... very convincing, I noticed.”

Francis shook his head, “I knew... - he sat next to him – I'm sorry, Toni. I love you more.”

“What am I to you?”

The Frenchman didn't seem to sure of how to formulate that answer, so he mumbled a bit.

“A lot... you're my best friend, a part of my family...”

“And?”

“And?”

“Nothing else?”, Antonio asked, nervously.

Francis smiled a bit, tenderly, “You are my Northern Star.”

Antonio shook away the blanket and stared at Francis angrily. He seemed furious, worse: hurt. He looked like someone took away from him some part of him, something he never thought he could have had being separated from.

“What does that even mean?”

“Toni... why are you so pissed about tonight? Did you like Sadik or...?”

“Your words don't mean anything, Francis. You say I'm your Polaris, but you forgot me. You always forget me as soon as someone else gets your attention.”

Francis blinked, puzzled, “Wha- I never forget you, you are always the most important person in my life... a date is not as important as you.”

“Why do you keep searching for lovers, don't you think you're sleeping around too much?”

“I had some relationships, this doesn't mean that...”

“Why!”, Antonio roared, crying.

His tears dropped on the floor, soundless, like snow.

Francis tried to reach out for him, but Antonio avoided his hug.

“Toni, I'm not your mom, I'm not substituting you... - he assured, sweetly, his eyes becoming more tender and gentle again – I won't forget you.”

Antonio trembled, tempted to accept those arms.

But then that sweet look hurt him.

It was not the look he wanted.

There was no lust for him.

If that was what they had, Antonio then couldn't bear it: he would have broken it, if that was the only way to be seen differently.

“Well, I'm not the one desperate to fuck the whole town because my parents divorce drowned me in commitment issues!”

Francis couldn't believe what he heard.

His spine felt white and broken, his mind filled with a pain made of air and ice.

His hand moved almost of its own, as if his body was trying to protect his own soul in the only way possible, and he punched Antonio in the stomach, making him fall on the ground, in pain.

“Don't you dare... - he kept swallowing and shaking in wrath – Don't you dare speak about things you don't understand ever again.”

His voice was different than usual.

It was frozen.

Antonio never heard him sound like that, he realized only then that he hurt Francis. Not for a joke, for real, and willingly.

He wanted to.

He wanted to hurt him.

“I'm... I'm sorry.”

Francis' eyes seemed to get softer again, so his shoulders. Francis mouthed something a bit, then nodded, sadly, trying to fake a smile, “It's fine.”

“I don't know why I said that.”

Francis breathed out, “I think what struck the most was... how you think I'm just... having fun or something to run away from commitment. - he let out a small, metallic laugh – I... I would just want to it. I would... want that but I seem destined like my mom to never find the right person.”

Antonio felt it: the impulse to say to look at him.

But he shut up.

In front of him, his best friend was crying. The man he loved since almost ten years was crying.

At first slowly and lightly, then like a kid, with his mouth pending down and the tears strolling down big and round.

Francis was everything to him.

Francis was the one that read a lot and wanted secretly to be a poet, while he studied fashion design. Francis was the one who could charm any lady or boy he set his eyes on without problem. Francis was the melancholic one that hummed old french songs into the wind under the moonlight. Francis was the one speaking about art, pulling him to museums but still laughing at every joke he made, even the silliest. Francis was both the shy kid that held his hand on the hill and the flirty sensual man that danced in front of him.

Francis was everything to him.

And they belonged to each other in the way two stars, twins and dear, that know each other since a millennium and nobody else truly know, belong to each other.

Antonio felt for the first time he could have give up being lovers, if that really hurt Francis' heart so much.

“Fran... you'll find that person.”

“How do you know?”

He smiled, “Because I can't believe in the whole world nobody would feel like your arms are heaven to them. - then he laughed, embarrassed – Look, you're a great catch.”

Francis jumped a bit and held Antonio, pulling him close to him. He could feel Antonio's warmth and kept him close to his chest.

“Thank you.”

Antonio hid the face against Francis' chest, which he always felt was his home.

His hug was a lullaby.

Antonio rubbed his nose against it and Francis had to hide a bit of blushing.

It was hard to explain and for sure Antonio wouldn't have understood, but, inside, he often felt complete and happy only when holding him. Nobody else made him ever feel like he did.

Antonio was strong-headed, independent, often playing dumb about feelings, but he was also extremely fragile and lonely. He was a delicate boy who pretended to have an armor on.

And Francis would have often just liked to hold him forever.

He felt so good. So pure.

Francis swallowed, separating himself, forcing himself not to stare at Antonio then, because a thought – again, one of those, came to him.

 

And then,

your parted lips

like a bridge

on the side

of my head

that crumbles

and rots.

My heart is dirt.

 

He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to suck those lips, to make them his own, to devour him.

Sometimes... sometimes, he wanted to mark Antonio. Like a lover would.

He knew it was stupid: Antonio didn't see him that way and, due to his problems with his mother, he would have probably felt betrayed or, worse, forced to stay with him not to be abandoned.

But for how many people he liked, he felt affection for, it was true and remained true what he said before: nobody was as important as Antonio.

And there was nobody he wanted more.

But it couldn't be... he didn't want to be. He didn't want to be alone forever.

Antonio was company but he couldn't be a lover.

He caressed his hair, like he often did when thinking, “Ah... I think we should go to bed now, it's quite late.”

“Francis...”

“Yeah?”

“Can I try a thing?”

Antonio put his hand behind Francis' head, collecting some of his hair, leaving , though, two big curls at the side of the face.

“You'd look handsome in a ponytail...”, he mumbled, almost mesmerized.

Francis shook away, shivering as the contact persisted.

Ah, damn, Antonio's skin was hot against his own.

“I'm sorry...”

Antonio shook his head, gulping, “Ah... right... you maybe now are taken or something.”

“You mean Sadik? Well, we... - Francis couldn't hide a smile, however sad, as he recalled the night – He was very sweet, but if you feel bad about me going out with him, I won't, I promise.”

Antonio felt cement on his tongue, in his veins. Every word was a step towards disaster.

“Do you like him?”

Francis hesitated. He couldn't have possibly said what he truly thought or felt.

“He was... very nice.”

“That's a yes. - Antonio forced himself to smile – Then I think you should give it a try, maybe he is the Prince Charming.”

“... thank you.”

Francis smiled and took out of his pockets the number written over the bill of the club and memorized on the mobile phone.

“Can I ask a thing, though?”

“Uh, sure.”

“How was the sex?”, Antonio coughed a bit after asking, in a motion of reserve.

Francis frowned a bit, uncertain of why Antonio would have wanted to know, but didn't see any problem in it.

“It was good. It was just a bit bothersome to prepare him without lube other than the mini packet.”

“So he took you...”

“Since when you like these details... - Francis felt a bit annoyed and suspicious – What's up?”

“I'm trying to understand if my best friend took it up his ass, since he was swaying it like a little horny whore.”, he joked, feeling a pinch of satisfaction in insulting him.

Francis' eyes shone of a unique gleam.

“We did a lot of stuff there, do you want a summary or do I ask if they have a tape?”

“Why are you angry?”

Francis lowered his eyes.

“I … I don't know, I'm sorry, I'm just a bit tired.”

 

* * *

 

_Fourth Chapter – Honey stains over glass hearts_

* * *

 

He couldn't sleep that night, thinking about Francis and Sadik, so he went to the kitchen, to comfort himself with a cup of warm coffee.

Antonio remembered how he took the habit of living in the night, using its fresh dark hours to live an house that was for him alone, enjoying the razor's edge between peace and solitude, which he horribly feared. It was his own dance against himself, his own limit to climb and to contemplate.

It all started as he went to live with Francis and Magdalene, five years before.

Francis was... hard to watch sleeping: too beautiful, too defenseless.

Every time that Francis had an erotic dream, Antonio was tempted to take his erection in his mouth and make him come. What stopped him was the genuine terror of Francis waking up after coming and meeting the true person behind his best friend.

The familiar shell he loved... that shell was hiding the worst part of him: the greedy one, that wanted him all to himself, that didn't care about his boyfriends or girlfriends or what he felt for him. That part wanted him beyond the skin and deeper than blood.

Greed is an habit, they say. But to him it was worse: it was a forma mentis, the way his mind was shaped, it was a toxic reality in which no contact is enough unless it's under his skin and caresses his own soul.

He hated how Francis wanted Love. He hated how he searched for it everywhere except in front of him.

He always hated it, with the deep, green rage one feels for what they could love but is not directed towards them.

Antonio felt awfully sleeping next to Francis, seeing him turning in the bed, sometimes grunting and moving his hips back and forth slightly. He sometimes wished to just make Francis hard enough, ride him and get that cheap reward for his patience.

… but who was Francis dreaming about? He wouldn't tell.

Those full lips never let out a name, as if, even in sleep, shame or reserve could close the door and avoid someone else to discover him.

And so Antonio took the habit of walking in the apartment alone at night, to sit on the sofa, contemplate how different everything looked in the pale moonlight, thinking about how distant moon and sun are and how deep is the cut that runs between a dream and a wish.

As he got his own room, at seventeen, he still couldn't stop doing it, especially when he knew Francis had sex the same day and being there, separated just by a thin wall, from all he wanted was such a heavy reminder, he just wanted to run away.

He could distinctively remember one night, of their seventeenth year, when Francis went to sleep pretty early, after a whole afternoon at the seaside with Michelle, a swarthy delicious girl from Seychelles. She was a professional swimmer, laughed like a child, had a heart of sea foam and pearls. She made Francis extremely happy, he was always in a good mood when they were together, never in one of his subdued sad phases, and started to whistle and half-sing in the house.

Antonio felt his heart cut in half, for he couldn't even hate her.

It was easy to hate Charlotte or some of the others, because often Francis never seemed satisfied and there were times in which for Antonio it was clear his best friend was acting charming and soft-spoken also to protect himself from being vulnerable and showing how something hurt him.

He was truly romantic, but nobody seemed to have given him the same care and affections he gave to others, making him, slowly, more and more tired when nobody watched and more and more funny and smiling when eyes were on him.

Michelle was a pretty difference.

As Francis went to sleep, Antonio rested his head on the wall that separated them, abandoning himself to silly thoughts and wishful thinking.

Francis became beautiful by then: he was lanky, but still muscles delineated his arms, his waist was thin and melted flatly into his toned abdomen. His hips, though, remained slightly curved like painting a barely sketched out hourglass figure. The iliac crest kept being there, sensual as always, provoking – Antonio dreamed more than once to leave on it a trail of soft kisses before blowing Francis.

What truly started to change was his face, though, that truly went from pretty to handsome, with his jaw getting manlier without breaking the soft renaissance traits and the smirk getting wider. He kept his hair long, never thinking of trying a short haircut.

It was still Francis and yet, still, it was like seeing him becoming always some better version of himself.

Antonio couldn't stop wishing that one night Francis would have noticed him, that he would have seen how he also grew up – how they were two men by then.

That night, he walked into Francis room, finding him in his bed, sleeping serene, soundly in the arms of the moon. Antonio swallowed, closed his eyes and sucked his lips, contemplating backing away, giving up a mission he still didn't exactly know nor thought about in detail; as Francis smiled in his sleep, tender, sugary, then Antonio couldn't go away.

He kneed next to the bed and started moving some of Francis' curls away from his face.

He gulped.

His finger couldn't be still any longer and, in a crystallized instant, they reached Francis' skin, caressing his lips, then going down his neck, courting the Adam's apple and the strong veins. Francis arched a bit at the contact.

Antonio caressed the collarbones, imagining being under Francis, as the friend would thrust into him, slamming, and seeing his collarbones, right over his face, seeing that chest, hairy, welcoming. He swallowed, hardly.

He run his fingers on the naked chest, moving slowly the soft sheets away from Francis' body. It was a sick, puerile curiosity of seeing him, and still also a poetic need, like a flame burning his brain.

Antonio kissed that chest, the waist, he descended to the abdomen, licking gently the belly button – to which Francis tensed significantly giving out a small grunt – and then blond happy trail while his hand threw definitively away the sheet and reached for Francis' boxers.

Antonio was not thinking anymore by then, his heartbeat was drumming in his hear and mind, making him deaf and stupid.

His hand started to brush gently Francis' crotch.

A muffled low moan, suffocated by his closed mouth, and half-pained expression rose in the dark room and Antonio realized what he was doing had no excuse. And yet...

… how far can someone let a wave take him? How far can the tide make you lose yourself?

For love, out of love, all because of love and still horrible.

All he could think about was the smell of salt and sea that still was on Francis' skin, even after the shower, about his light tan, about how most surely he and Michelle made out on the beach, if not more, and how he never got more than that one kiss, that sloppy, doubtful, greedy, beautiful kiss of two years before.

He decided to rub Francis' cock through the thin fabric, while licking him gently, letting both his hand and tongue savor what they craved so much and for so long.

He could see Francis, still soundly asleep, arching, tensing his muscles until the hips and moving closer and closer to his mouth.

Antonio could enjoy the bliss of feeling Francis' erection getting harder against his hands and tongue, pulling the fabric and asking for relief.

“...ni...”

He stopped, hearing him mumble. He raised his head and saw Francis panting slightly, his face contracted in an unfinished pleasure.

“...nio.”

He started mouthing, embarrassed, panicking about what to do: was Fran about to wake up? Was he actually already awake and calling his name? Or was... he... ?

He was about to hope that, maybe, for some silly joke of the brain, Francis was indeed dreaming about him; but he didn't know what to do in case he would have woke up and find him like that. He didn't know what to think anymore and, shaking, doubtful, rushed out of the room, hiding in his own, taking away with himself in his mouth the taste of Francis' skin and of a slight hope.

He could feel his own crotch pulsing, asking for attention, begging to let out all the tension.

Ah, what if truly Francis did call his name? He had no real proof, but the thrill, the idea... he felt his cock erected in no time, pumping himself to full hardness.

Laying his head on the wall on the border with Francis' room, panting, he sucked three fingers of his right hand and penetrated himself, eagerly. He had to choke a moan, mixing pleasure and hurt – he couldn't bear to prepare himself any longer.

He spreads his thighs wider , laboring to keep the position, while his legs tremble with pleasure shaking his spine relentlessly. The sensation of his fingers reaching his weak spot is overwhelming – he closes his eyes, gives up stroking himself and just bites his left hand to avoid filling the air with wanton moans.

He keeps shivering, shaking, his fingertips caress his own prostate and he can't stop thinking about Francis' cock, about how good it'd feel -

His veins filled with blood, his cock was full hard, throbbing. Antonio kept biting his hand, begging himself not to whine and squirm loudly, but he couldn't stop moving the other hand faster and faster into himself, trying desperately to fill himself. He was left aroused yet frustrated at his own limit.

He closed his eyes, imagining Francis thrusting into him, pushing into him, making him jolt. Ah, he would have felt open and filled, fucked until broken. And Francis, Francis would have surely teased his sweet spot to madness and - his moans got thicker, louder and then just barely muffled - he would have kissed his back, bite his neck, fuck him balls-deep while showering him with sweet nothings.

He would have called him “amour” or “cher” with his low baritone voice, dense as honey, hot as liqueur burning his mouth.

Antonio shivered, his spine shook to the narrow by arousal, his erection painfully close to explode. He kept rocking the fingers against his prostate, erratically, exasperatedly.

The teeth started to let blood drop from his hand but he couldn't seem to notice.

He was jerking his hips quickly against his hands, up and down, in desperate thrusts, with his eyes closed, imagining Francis' thick dick stretching him and pushing until his end. He would have fucked him so well... he could almost feel him.

Antonio chocked on a squirmy moan, falling on his back, his ass still twitching, his bed sheets covered in sperm.

He panted a bit, then staring at his hand. It was bleeding and trembling slightly.

He cleaned it into the sheets, unable to run to the bathroom to get some bandage. Unable to walk in general. Fuck.

The morning after, Francis seemed in a weirdly bothered mood, but didn't comment anything nor looked at him weirdly – or, for the matter, avoid looking at him at all, which meant he didn't really realize what happened the night before. Just to make sure any true understanding would have been avoided, Antonio claimed he drank some beers before going to bed the night before, hoping nobody counted the cans in the fridge.

“Weird...”

“W-why?”

“You don't really like beer, why were you drinking it?”

“Ah... changing tastes, I guess. I'm a growing boy, eheh.”

Francis, then, glanced at him, quickly, like a thief. He then rolled his eyes onto the floor and swallowed, scratching his nape.

Francis promised himself to stop dreaming Antonio and him making love, because it was starting to get more and more complicated for him to hide his interest.

He seemed so shy all of a sudden, his cheeks slightly flushed.

Usually, in his dreams, he mostly fucked Antonio, but that night he dreamed his friend giving him a blow job, a great one, even.

It was hard to stop feeling about him, since it felt so realistic, so close- he could even swore this time in his ears the voice of Antonio ringer truer, deeper.

Francis opened the fridge, searching for some milk to pour in his coffee, and mumbled distractedly, “Yesterday at the beach...”

“Oh right, how was it? Entertaining enough?”, Antonio smirked, suggestive, while his stomach felt turned up.

Francis smiled weakly, “It was nice, but... I would have liked to be there with you.”

Antonio scoffed, “I'm honored if you'd pick me over ex, but who are you and what did you do to my best friend?”

“I didn't say we couldn't have both.”, Francis replied, winking.

At then he cursed himself. Fuck, he was an idiot.

The instinct to flirt was stronger than him and he said it- now how would have Antonio know he was joking? Was he even joking? He should have said he was joking.

Dammit, damn it, him and his stupid inability to resist his own flirty jokes.

Francis started to gesture, erratically, shaking his hands around, he shuttered, sweating a bit, trying to formulate a complete sentence instead of “ah”s, “no”s, “emh”s.

Antonio stared at him, his eyes wide, without blinking a couple of seconds, then he could feel his heart clenching painfully.

He let out a laugh, that type of laugh that's both amused and drenched in sadness, that sounds like a slap against your lungs and you know it could end in tears. He started to laugh very loudly, holding his belly.

“God, you're truly an idiot...”

After years, now that they were twenty years old and no more teenagers and the time should have washed away all the pain, Antonio could still feel the aftertaste of that laugh in the back of his throat. He caressed his neck, with the morbid sour tenderness of one condemned to be hanged.

He could remember every instant. He held onto those, onto the only thing he could share with Francis after all.

He kept thinking about that night, comparing it to the one before, where Francis met Sadik and, well, got to know him in the biblical sense.

Antonio kept thinking about how Francis got annoyed, when he had to explain further his night... he couldn't stop wondering if he felt insulted at the idea to bottom, or if being called a whore, or if he was being defensive about the unusual position and a possible having enjoyed the sex regardless.

Ah but Francis probably did, didn't he?

Sadik looked like the type of person who surely knows his tricks, he looked smart like a fox and with that grin, like he... Antonio groaned, sickened.

He couldn't accept it.

He threw the coffee mug into the sink, shattering it with an acute crash, only in a couple of instant a very sleepy and very worried Francis came from his room, “Are you alright?”

“I... I just broke a mug, I'm fine.”

“Why are you awake at this time? - he yawned – Shouldn't you be in bed?”

“I'm on the naughty list. - Antonio chuckled – I didn't feel like sleeping, but I'm okay.”

Francis came next to him, sitting on a kitchen chair, smiling.

“You're terrible at lying...”, he whispered, sympathetic.

“I know...”, Antonio admitted, sadly.

Francis placed his hand on Antonio's cheek and the other leaned his face against it, resting a bit in the sweet contact. Francis still had on his perfume – the one he bought him for Christmas last year. He wore it every day.

Antonio saw it as a subtle, transparent mark, but he had no idea how Francis could see it.

Francis looked hesitant, he opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, keeping his eyelids half-closed. He seemed sad as he bowed a bit, coming closer to Antonio's face.

Antonio broke eye contact and turned towards the table, stubbornly mute, even his ears flushing red. God, it almost felt as Francis wanted to kiss him. He was not sure he could have survived the heart-attack of discovering it was something else.

Francis stopped half-way, swallowed, his eyes turning bitter, and backed a bit.

“What is keeping you awake?”

“Nothing special... just thoughts...”

“If I didn't know you, I would think you were still upset about Sadik...”, Francis mumbled, staring at the ceiling, with a sarcastic expression on his face.

Antonio pouted, “I hate when you're right.”

“Must be hard to hate every single second of our lives.”

Antonio smirked, “My oh my, aren't we confident?”

Francis smiled in seeing Antonio playing a bit with him, clearly a bit distracted from the pain. He could feel a warmth tak.ing space inside the other man's heart.

Still.

His eyes kept falling and then lingering on his full lips, craving them, wanting to taste them and suck them, pulling them while biting and then violating the whole mouth with his tongue, taking over Antonio, pushing away all of his resistance and protests.

In his mind, Francis did it a thousand times.

He kept imagining it: taking Antonio's chin into his hands and kissing him, before as a soft brush of lips, then getting harder, stronger, his tongue taking space into his warm and wet mouth, with a bit of force, he would have let Antonio melt into moans. And he would have swallowed that voice, with the same greediness he would have swallowed his sperm, letting the quivering, squirmy noises into him and never letting them go away.

To him, that was even more forbidden, even more sinful to think than fucking Antonio.

He thought about that too, so many times: slamming him on the kitchen table, bucking into him with a strong thrust – he bet Antonio would have taken him gladly, even dry, all of him, every inch, obediently – and fucking him until, orgasm after orgasm, the lewdest expression would have appeared on his face: his jaw dropped completely and his tongue sticking out like a dog.

Antonio had the best ass Francis ever saw: it screamed pleasure, it promised the softest thing to grab and to fondle.

It's not like he never had the most impure thoughts about him.

But.

But kissing him, gently, putting all his heart in the tip of his lips, that was his real forbidden desire. Admitting he wanted a romantic, serious, possibly eternal relationship with him was impossible, and he never wanted anything more.

He would have liked to hold him close and whisper an “I love you” he kept in so much that it puts roots around his heart, strangling it day by day.

He would have... just wanted to love him, freely, completely.

Francis' bottom lip trembled. Just the thought of holding Antonio without shame, without hiding feelings, finally calling 'Love' what he always masked as Friendship, was enough to leave him heartbroken.

Antonio blinked, worried, putting his hand on Francis' shoulders, “Spacing out?”

“Toni...”

“Yes?”

“Do you... if I really went out with Sadik, would you mind? What would you feel?”

The Spaniard faked a smile, the corners of his mouth trying to sink, his eyes holding a sea of sadness. The green almost seemed grey, all of a sudden.

“Happy, obviously! He seems a cool guy!”

Francis had a pained expression, like he felt empty and his hopes collapsed.

So Antonio truly didn't care, after all?

“I see...”

“What? You know he is not my type: too dark. You're the one who likes tanned people.”

Francis smiled sadly, shaking his head at how pathetic he was, even unconsciously.

He decided to play happy, putting on a mask that, once again, wouldn't have betrayed him, “Ah... but you know, a skin the color of caramel is the best to me. - his voice waves like he was singing – And dark hair too, there is a certain charme in the exotic and the darkness.”

Antonio laughed, “Really now!”

“Truly. - he winked – After all, darkness is as scary as fascinating. It's like... l'appel du vide, it's the thrill of something immense that arouses you.”

“Mh. I think you're just being your usual perverted self...”

“Then what do you think it's better?”, Francis asked, faking curiosity, while he was perfectly aware he was pointing a gun at his own heart.

“Something pretty and with angelic features. Romantic more than sensual.”

Francis pouted, wondering who Antonio could have in mind while speaking. Why couldn't that be him? He also was more of the romantic type...

He gave a low sigh. Probably Antonio really didn't think about him nor sexually nor romantically at all.

“Ah, you should find a boyfriend too, so we could go out in four!”

“Aren't you going too fast?”

“But I'd be curious of seeing somebody Antonio likes... since that kid in Spain, you never had really anyone you truly liked.”

Antonio kept to himself the biggest 'fuck you' of his life and mumbled, embarrassed, “Well... there is someone maybe, it's just you don't know everything.”

Francis turned, panicky, “Who?”

A moment of electric silence occurred, during which Antonio searched in his mind for a possible excuse that wouldn't have sounded half-assed while Francis tried hard to push back the teary voice that was burning his throat.

Francis could distinctively feel his chest burning and getting heavier, like the crater of hell opened into him, swallowing him from inside.

“Roderich, Roderich Edelstein.”

“... the pianist?”

“Yes. - Antonio tried to seem convincing, but his eyes wandered to avoid the contact with Francis' ones – I like him since a long time.”

Francis seemed lost.

Like his bones and limbs went powerless, he teetered a second, while his eyes dropped on the floor. His face seemed blank and yet on the verge of tears. His smile turned frail, his skin whiter. He stayed mute a moment, before a hoarse, thin “Ah...” came out of his mouth, weakly.

“Fran?”

“Then we should totally get you two together, shouldn't we?”, Francis asked, pulling again one of his charming facades.

He couldn't feel anything anymore behind his smile.

He wondered if when hearts break they simply turn to stone.

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Fifth Chapter – Metaphor Denial_

* * *

 

Sadik kissed Francis' ear, tenderly, making him turn and smile at him sweetly, like they met heaven in each others' eyes.

Antonio felt like puking.

Francis went closer to Sadik and whispered in his ear, than letting an hand wander and brushing right over his tight jeans, making the Turkish man tense against him. Francis smirked, domineering, kissing Sadik's jaw.

“Guys. Public space.”

Francis turned towards his friend, “Yes, yes, I know, sorry.”

“Ask sorry to the old granny at the other table.”

“Because you, instead, enjoyed it?”, Sadik joked, making Francis stiff.

“A-Ah, this one was a bit vulgar, baby.”, the Frenchman commented, weakly.

Antonio felt his stomach twist at someone defining the human wardrobe as a baby, but figured to keep his mouth shut and enjoyed the comforting worry on Francis' face.

He looked almost embarrassed, which was weird. His jokes and hints were usually fairly more explicit, after all.

“No offense, Sadik, but I doubt the show would interest me.”

Sadik smirked, a weird gleam in his eyes, “Because we are too different, me and you?”

Antonio was about to reply, but Francis cut him quicker.

“Sad, I know you like me to shut you up with my dick but this doesn't mean you have to spit venomous word around just to give me the impulse to. - he replied harshly, leaving the other two speechless about his crudity, then, feeling guilty, Francis gave a low, flirty laugh and caressed Sadik's back seductively – I always feel like you anyway, you know this...”

As they returned to watch into each others' eyes , Antonio groaned loudly. Nothing comforted him and he wondered for which stupid reason he said to Francis that going out with Sadik was ok... at least he would have been sad and single a couple of months.

Then Sadik did it.

“I love you.”

Antonio froze, paralyzed. He couldn't perceive anything else for an instant, then, quickly, he turned to Francis, equally shocked.

Francis was there, motionless, holding the spoon he was using to mix his coffee, staring at his boyfriend speechless.

“Sa-”

“I know I should have waited... - Sadik blushed a bit, embarrassed, scratching his nape – But, you know, I am also an hopeless romantic like you.”

Antonio shivered. He knew those were the magic words to tie Francis.

Now, regardless of how bad the relationship could have become, thinking there was Love into it, Francis would have stayed as long as humanly possible into it.

It was checkmate.

Francis smiled, coming closer to the other man, kissing his jaw and then his lips softly, “I love you too, baby.”

Sadik giggled, almost seeming small.

Antonio felt like he was going to suffocate or cry. His eyes were heavy. Fuck, fuck.

As Francis held Sadik in his arms, against his chest, the latter threw a long, persistent, glance at Antonio, making it the most clear it was not a case if he declared in front of him.

He was tempted to just go away, but he found out that, pathetically enough, he couldn't bring himself to go away from Francis smiling so happily.

Ah, it was ridiculous what three words could do to him...

“Fran, baby, could you order me another coffee? - Sadik asked, in a tone that Antonio deduced to be fakely kind – Please?”

“Don't mention it.”, Francis nodded, going inside the bar and leaving the other two alone at the little table outside.

“Hope you're not rushing into it, it'd be a shame if you got burnt.”

“How bitter. - the Turkish glared at him – For someone who doesn't get dick in since a long time, you really act like a pain in the ass.”

“At least, I don't spout I love yous randomly.”

“Is it random to you? - Sadik lifted an eyebrow, perplexed – You are the type that belittles the feelings of everyone around him, aren't you? - he scoffed – I happen to be really in love with Fran: he is romantic, sweet, smart and has an horse-cock. Do you really think only you could be serious about him?”

“How do you even... I'm...”

“Don't deny, I don't care about that. - he cut him – I am a very possessive person and I don't appreciate sore losers.”

Antonio burst, “I am not a sore loser!”

“How else would you define yourself?”

There was a moment of silence until Francis returned with an happy expression, relaxed and proud of himself. He looked illuminated.

“Toni, Roderich will play at Les Deux Magots tonight. - he smirked, proud – And we'll be there.”

“Roderich?”

Francis looked a bit hesitant but still joyful, “The boy Toni likes: he is a pianist from Vienna.”

“Oh really? - Sadik seemed content – We have to go then!”

“Oh, please, it would never work.”

Francis trembled a bit, then held Sadik's hand.

“But, you see, I'd want you to be happy too.”

Antonio gave up. Seeing those two caressing each others' hands, tracing veins and bones with a tender care and a sweet gleam in their eyes, the way they discretely found their fingers and refused to stop the contact, dancing and caressing the back of them like they were making love, it made Antonio wish earth opened and swallowed him.

That evening arrived quietly, with the slow peace of summer sky staining with blue. A fresh breeze shook the trees around, while a gentle scent of salt awoke in him the memories of the seaside.

Around Antonio the lights were yellow and dim, kind with the eyes, inviting, like a sensual woman.

Francis looked at his best: he put his hair up in a ponytail, kept together by a gray ribbon; he was wearing a refined black suit, probably a Prada, with a satin gray shirt and a black tie. He looked so handsome, Antonio contemplated considering it a date.

It was beautiful, while it was just the two of them, laughing and smiling, simply, as children. Antonio didn't feel in such a good mood since months: it felt as things were supposed to be like all of that time, them in Paris, in the evening, out alone, a glass of wine and a concert, Francis smiling to him like there was nobody else in the world. They felt like a couple.

“Fran, can I ask you something?”

“Uh. Sure.”, he seemed surprised, he was sipping red wine gently, enjoying the soft jazz before the piano show.

Antonio showed his happiest smile, hoping to hide well his emotions, “Isn't... Sadik, you know, very different from your usual type? I mean he is basically a...”

“...bear?”, Francis suggested with a leer.

“Sorta.”

Francis chuckled, shaking his head, “Ah, you see, he is surprisingly tender and... gentle for someone so big... I guess, he is one of those.”

“Those what?”

“Mh... - the Frenchman seemed doubtful about speaking, - I have this theory... there are two types of people: those who don't feel loved enough and become submissive because overwhelmed by love and those who don't feel loved enough and become dominant, sure that love will leave if they don't hold onto it.”

“And what about people who feel enough loved?”

“Such a thing doesn't exist, I'm afraid.”, he smiled, with a grin drenched in melancholy.

“I... - Antonio swallowed – Look, I have to tell you a thing. I know this is most surely not the right moment, I know I might regret it, I know everything might change after, but I have to.”

Francis blinked, his attention caught.

“What is it, Toni?”

His voice sounded so sweet, Antonio had to force himself for speaking more.

“I was thinking lately... actually, since a while, that...”

“Here I am, baby.”

“...that oxygen is indeed wasted easily.”, he muttered.

Francis smiled, standing up and hugging his lover, who kissed him on the jawline.

“My, aren't you stunning?”, Francis chirped, looking at Sadik, who was wearing a white v-neck on black jeans that, Antonio noticed with hate, made Sadik's butt look gorgeous and absolutely tempting for Francis, who stared at it a couple of seconds, pleased.

“You more, my dear.”, he whispered, kissing Francis' ear and making him smile.

God, they were so cute Antonio felt like open his belly, take out his stomach and throw it over the orchestra.

Sadik gave a small smile too, making Antonio feel guilty about all of his plans and wishful thinking.

“Ah... - Francis seemed to realize something – There on that table there are Roderich with some people. - he grinned, victoriously – I should do something about it.”

“Eh? What are you thin...”

“Veni, vidi, vici style.”, Francis claimed before standing up and going to the table where Roderich Edelstein was sitting with a very pretty looking girl, with long caramel locks, and a boy that Antonio recognized being as the guy at the party with them during the club evening: Gilbert.

Antonio and Sadik waited in line, one absolutely unenthusiastic about being for real introduced at someone he didn't truly like and the other frankly annoyed for the attention his boyfriend was dedicating to a friend; but they both stayed then a bit charmed, as they saw Francis speaking amiably and affably with those people he never met before.

Francis was truly charming, he led people into conversations, listened to them and conquer their hearts. It was like seeing someone dancing a pas a deux with souls.

He was delicate, funny, sparkly. He was light as spring breeze and sensual as summer thunderstorms.

And Antonio knew, he always did, he was enraptured by him, since years. Charmed, captivated by the way he moved his hands and smiled and talked.

Antonio knew that all of this was the butterfly whom he saw coming and whom he loved since before he had wings of such painfully beautiful colors.

There is something awful in loving someone bigger than you, bigger than life itself, someone who will never belong to you alone, but to the world. It's heavy, it's suffocating. He could feel it, cutting his bones, sitting on his lungs, eating his heart: the sensation of being marked by someone you'll never mark back. And Francis didn't belong to him, yet or never.

In no time, Elizavetha, an Hungarian girl who Francis defined “of rare and blissful beauty”, was deeply charmed and invited all of them to come to their table. Gilbert snickered a bit, like a hyena, but it was most clearly bitter, as he kept staring at Roderich and Elizavetha with an indescribable look, similar to the one of a wounded raptor, striving between hunger and sadness.

“This boy. - Francis exclaimed, holding Antonio's shoulder – He is a huge fan of yours. He basically pleaded us to come here.”

“Really?”

Roderich seemed surprised, pleasantly, as a small smile rose on his, otherwise controlled and calm expression.

Antonio noticed there that Roderich was, actually, a truly pretty boy.

He had a powder white complexion and soft, curly hair, that fitted on his cheekbones like a baroque frame. His lips were full, gentle and pinkish. His fingers long, tapered – Antonio understood then why one says “pianist's hands” because those hands were definitively beautiful and born to be playing the piano.

There was something, in him, that reminded Antonio about Francis: the charm, the refined manners, the light-coloured eyes.

Roderich's eyes looked like drops of rain on a window.

He reminded Antonio of a Francis of the past, one before the need of love, before the fear of being alone, took over making him such a huge flirt. He reminded Antonio of what Francis was in that summer, ten years before, in the fields of golden wheat dancing under the wind.

Antonio felt the sting of guilt assaulting him as he realized: he couldn't love Roderich, not in that world, not in those circumstances, but he knew... he knew he could have, if Francis didn't exist. He knew he could have had something growing in his heart for him.

He found himself grieving silently the love he couldn't feel, the loves he never would have felt.

Could a feeling never existed hurt you? How strong can an “almost” be?

“Ah, yes... I'm no expert of classical music, but my guts adore yours. - Antonio smiled, genuinely, and Francis felt like dying – It makes me feel like I'm back in time.”

“Really?”, Roderich was probably not used to compliments, because he tried hard to stay composed but his eyes shone like the ones of a kid on Christmas.

“Truly.”

Elizavetha smiled, caressing the pianist's arm and putting Francis on the defensive.

Gilbert, sitting right next to him, whispered, barely audible, “So you two got together I see...”

“Ah, yes. - Francis faked a courteous smile, but then understood Gilbert was not up for a no-direction small talk – Why?”

“Nothing, curious. Chitty-Chatty. - he grinned like the Cheshire cat – You just look a bit unbalanced, that's all.”

“What do you mean?”

“That it's obvious someone's head is not in the game.”

The group discussion threw theirs away, like cards being blown by the wind, as Roderich mumbled, “Well, I'd like to write opera, but I'd need a poet or a writer to work with... my librettos would be awful.”

Sadik scoffed, “How can you say that?”

“I'm confident music is superior to words, so I find it complete already. - he admitted – Not to add, I play because I'm not good at transmitting emotions with words.”

Elizavetha smiled, “Then we should find you a poet...”

“Francis is a poet! - Antonio exclaimed, jumping on his chair, enthusiastic, his eyes sparkling, he looked like something beautiful just overwhelmed him completely - He is great! The best.”

Francis froze to the bone.

On the other side, Sadik seemed to get stiff, vexed and annoyed. He narrowed his eyes and stared a bit at his boyfriend, then around himself, with an heavy and gray expression on his face.

“Really? - Elizavetha clapped a bit – But then you have to read us something.”

“Ah, I... I have nothing with me-”, Francis managed to mutter, incredibly embarrassed. He felt vulnerable, close to ruin.

Antonio, though, was smiling at him, gently, happily.

He was smiling remembering all the times he woke up overnight and sneaked to peek in Francis' notebooks, trying to decode the handwriting, to understand the signs and the symbols, most of all trying to enter into Francis' mind.

Francis felt a small shock down his spine, as he saw Antonio so genuinely joyful about his poetry.

He wouldn't even dare call himself a 'poet'... and he...

“Then you should improvise us something!”, Gilbert shouted, raising his beer.

“What?”

“In honor to this jazz night! - he winked – C'mon, you're here with your significant other, aren't you?”

Sadik's attention got caught and he seemed to be again participating as he rose his eyes towards an utterly purple Francis.

“Why don't you create something about him? - his face was turned towards Sadik, his whole boy pointing at him, but his eyes glanced at Antonio, quickly, but slow enough for Francis' to see it – I'm sure he'd be happy...”

Francis gulped, finding the air salty and dry.

He looked at Antonio, he couldn't stop himself from it, not for that once.

His dear friend, his whole family, the print of his heart was there, smiling at him, yet confused, maybe he was truly glad to be close to Roderich right then, maybe he was making plans for the night, but he also did him a great present with his words.

Antonio looked simple, he looked like something of light and easy.

He looked like a primary colour – he always did, since their first day – and everyone might have found him silly or somewhat shallow, but they couldn't look well. They were blind.

They didn't know how deep the cyan can be as it opens in your eyes, how strong the yellow can beat inside your mind and they surely didn't know what red felt like on the tip of your tongue and then rushing through your veins.

Antonio was there and he always had been, like the sun in the sky. And just like the sun he was simple and easy, yet essential to life.

One star less in the sky... maybe they would have never noticed, but without the sun, he would have died.

He looked at Antonio's eyes of the color of the forest and the water of the fresh lakes in the mountains.

Francis took a deep breath and turned towards Sadik, who smiled too, feeling like he was going to receive a piece of his lover's heart, raw and pure.

Francis closed his eyes, his knuckles getting white as he held the table.

He could feel his heartbeat tremble and his throat hard. He heard his own voice as distant, like the soft echo of the waves who crash on faraway cliffs.

“I burn and vanish... charcoal in your sea. - his bottom lip quivered – I lilt and shrill, waiting, always, waiting, - he swallowed – and uselessly craving your.... sweet carnage onto my crippled wavelets, onto my tired ripples. - he furrowed his eyebrows – You can only sink in my abyss.”

There was a moment of silence before Elizavetha started sniffing slightly, touched, smiling tenderly. Roderich looked at her like nothing cuter ever existed. Gilbert's eyes were set on the other two guys: Antonio trembling with anger and Sadik enchanted beyond repair.

As Francis opened his eyes again, he was sure surprised in seeing Antonio look so upset. Maybe he didn't like the poem? He thought he liked what he wrote.

Sadik came close to him and kissed him deeply, opening his mouth and conquering, steadily and passionately, Francis' one with his tongue. His mouth was ardent, his lips like fire. Francis gave a low chuckle, as they break, “I'll take it as that you liked it.”

Sadik nodded, eager, “Why didn't you ever told me you write? That was the sweetest thing someone ever said to me, it was... it was amazing, you are amazing.”

Francis' eyes widened in surprise and flatter, but he could see, behind them, Antonio holding furiously his fists clenched over his knees. He looked tense, like if the veins on his head were about to explode.

Francis tried to speak to him, but Sadik held him by the waist, “Fran, I...”

Gilbert stared at the two, then broke the speech, “Rod, shouldn't you go to prepare? - he snickered – You might get lost to find the changing room or something.”

Roderich raised his eyebrow, pissed, but had to agree, after checking the time. Sadik, interrupted, stopped speaking and Francis found himself relieved, as he sat back quickly, smiling, “Music is so beautiful, I can't wait to hear him playing... - he gave a quick look at Antonio, who didn't see him, then his voice turned sad – Love and art... are really... the deepest happiness.”

Sadik kissed him on the hair, before returning to his place, where Elizavetha, smelling the tension in the air, occupied him with a long and heated discussion about politics and military history, that seemed almost out of place with such a graceful girl, dressed with a flowery dress, but which she proved to be able to speak of fluently and with amazing details, leaving Sadik even a bit annoyed, as he found himself losing his arguments.

Gilbert murmured, “Moving jazz session.”

Francis gave a smug smile, “Thank you.”, he sipped a bit of his drink, enjoying the sweet taste unraveling, summery, in his mouth.

“Why don't you try to be honest, though?”

Francis turned, perplexed, scared, laughed a bit, “What do you mean?”

“Who was that for? - Gilbert asked, knowing the answer – Why are you not honest about how you feel?”

“Oh. - Francis smiled, sadly – That would kill art, after all.”

“What's the use in art that feeds off your fear?”

“My fear is always there... - he confessed – Art just gives it a sense, a place... like a puzzle.”

“And the real piece?”

Francis shrugged his shoulders, “It's a match I don't need to play to know I lost.”

Gilbert grinned, “Coward.”

Francis winked, “I don't take pride in strength.”

Antonio rose his head, trying to catch a bit of the conversation, and, in that instant, Francis turned towards him, with a big smile.

“Ah, you feel better?”

A small nod.

“You take pleasure in making my heart beat in worry, don't you? - he winked, playfully – I am sorry if the poem disappointed you.”

“It... it didn't.”

“Really? - Francis blinked – Why were you so upset then?”

“It reminded me of someone.”

Gilbert looked at both of them, quickly, and put his hands around their shoulders, pulling them together, and grinned, claiming, “You know what, guys? We should get a drink only the three of us one night!”

Francis seemed to sparkle brightly, “Absolutely! - he half-sang – After all, it's clear Antonio's prey has other intentions. - he tilted his head, pointing at Elizavetha – So we will have to find him a nice catch!”

“It's not necessary, really...”

“It is, it is. - Gilbert grinned, planning – So, hey, waiter, another beer, another red wine of whatever he took before and what was that? A Bloody Mary? Who the fuck drinks that if not for an hangover? Ok ok, those!”

 

* * *

 

_ Sixth Chapter -  Desire and Control _

* * *

 

“I hate skinny jeans.”

“I know.”

“No, you don't know, you don't understand. - Antonio opened the curtain of the changing room furiously – You can't, because there you are with your black skinny jeans that fit gorgeously.”

“They are a bit tight on the crotch, actually.”

Antonio glared, “I know your cock, Francis, you don't have to advertise it. - he sighed dramatically – But you don't have this, you know what this is, Francis?”

“... your butt?”

“A bubble butt. You know what it means to be a man with a bubble butt?”

“...that is very soft when someone fucks it?”

Antonio contemplated the compliment, “Ok, yeah, it's true, my butt is amazing, but it's a bubble. A fucking, gorgeous, soft, round bubble. You know what type of butt skinny jeans are for? Very manly, very flat butts.”

“Are you saying my butt is flat?”

“Your butt is great. - Antonio claimed, considering using the moment as an excuse to contemplate it again – But is a man's butt, not a bubble, I look like a Brazilian dancer.”

“I like Brazilian butts.”

“You like all butts, Francis.”

“Everyone is beautiful in their own way.”, he said, almost shading a tear.

Antonio groaned, rolling his eyes, then staring again and the jeans, fitting on his legs but tensing on the butt so much closing them was impossible.

“Why am I cursed with this?”

“I am sure a lot of people would consider that rather nice.”, Francis commented, staring a bit.

Antonio scoffed, “Pervert.”

“Toni... - Francis seemed to pause – You never...”

Antonio stiffed a bit, his voice hoarser and colder, “Did it? No, not yet.”

“How come?”

Francis seemed genuinely curious, like he couldn't find any logical explanation on why someone wouldn't want Antonio or sex, especially both. His friend took a little breath, before mumbling, “Not the occasion, I guess.”

“Nobody asked you too?”

“Nobody I liked. - he smiled – It's okay, I still have time...”

Francis looked at him, slowly, sensually. Antonio could feel his skin heat up under Francis' eyes.

“Fran?”

“Yes?”

He gave up asking, shaking his head slightly.

“Thank you for trying to help me shopping, you know family dinners make me nervous.”  
Francis chuckled lowly, “Both our moms at the same table would make even a lion nervous.”

“Oh, they're not that... yes, they are that bad.”

Francis laughed and it sounded intense and dark, “You had to think about it?”

“Not really, nope.”

“Do you think your mother will ever come to like me?”

Antonio didn't need to reflect on that one, “No.”

“...always blunt, I see.”

A smile, “She loathes you, you know it, she thinks you're a huge faggot that led me to a promiscuous life in Paris.”

“Why did she decided I made you gay, honestly?”

“Something around your personality, I guess.”

Francis mocked his voice, then pouted, adding, “I'm not even the golden star here, I'm the bisexual one.”

Antonio laughed harder, “But you came out first, which to her means you're a sodomite and a slut, not to add a corrupted servant of Satan.”

“Your mom is really into religion for a divorcee...”

“Her new boyfriend believes in this stuff, better than the Scientology one, if you ask me.”

Antonio picked a shirt from a pile and started to try it, unaware of Francis' lingering glances over his body. It was hard to explain properly, but to him Antonio was the most beautiful thing alive; he was almost an art piece and, yet, it was not about mere aesthetics, but he also found him scorching hot.

He looked at his soft back and start to imagine kissing it, slowly, gently, suck it slowly, leaving soft red-wine hickeys, making Antonio moan and arch.

He wondered how loud Antonio would have been in bed.

God, he hoped a lot.

He loved loud lovers, they gave just such a satisfaction and there were very few things more arousing that someone's voice coming weaker, undone and sluttier at every thrust of your penis.

As he realized he shouldn't have thought so about his friend, he felt guilty and mentally slapped himself; but, as Antonio kept struggling with shirts, getting half-naked, showing again that bit of his hips that flopped gently on the jeans, soft and asking to be grabbed and bitten, Francis fell for it again. His eyes now went directly for Antonio's butt and, damn, did it look fine.

Francis couldn't stop imagining it: dividing the cheeks, put some lube on his fingers, enter – Antonio would have suffocated a little moan, whimper a bit – then he would have searched for his prostate to massage it, making Antonio crumble and melt into his arms and cry out for more, taking him almost to come, if not even making him come and then provoke him again – oh, God, he would have adored that – and then enter in him, balls-deep, having him shudder, arch, bend, suffocate a scream of pleasure as his walls tense... he wanted to fuck him, to fuck him wildly, to slam into him, to bucket and mark him as deep as his butt went.

It was a craving, a lustful greed.

“Fran...”

“Y-yeah?”

“Does your mom like me?”

“But yes, naturally.”, he smiled, whispering.

“How come?”

“She sees you make me happy.”, Francis replied, simply.

Antonio gave a smile, “Do I?”

“In some way... - Francis scratched his nape – Sounds weird? When we were kids, we could say these things lightly, but now they sound so bigger... happy, happy is a weird thing: you are often, but after all, never.”

He looked at Antonio, this time staring into his eyes, having Antonio look back at him.

 

Skin like cinnamon

sticks

to my palate

and mind. It

haunts me

your scent

and your

scorching

soul,

ember – amber .

You are the salt

I crave

on my

wounds.

 

“Fran? All okay? - Antonio touched his forehead – You were spacing out...”

Francis nodded, enjoying the sensation of Antonio's warmth against his forehead. It felt so nostalgic, so tender. He could almost shiver at the sweetness.

“I think it still sounds great...”, Antonio murmured, looking at Francis in the eyes.

“Me too...”

They both were so close, the air in between almost hurt, like a limit on the lungs of a dreamer. They glanced at each others' bottom lip, feeling their blood grew dense and hot with desire, pending on their parted lips.

Francis decided to cut that hesitation: Antonio's mouth, his trembling olive skin, his scent that drove him insane – that scent he found himself sniffing from clothes and falling asleep to on the sofa – and put his finger under Antonio's chin. Antonio furrowed his eyebrows and, then, slowly, lowered his eyelids, wondering if it was a dream.

If it was, he didn't want to wake up.

He never hated a song as much as in that instant when his ring tone for his mother – the Darth Vader's Theme, more specifically – started to play. He opened his eyes back, just to meet the most exasperated expression on Francis, who was sucking and biting his lips, trying not to curse.

“Ah, I'm so... ah, wait! - he caught the phone – Mom! Hi! Yes! No! Yes, I... yes, I am great. No, I'm not... doing meth, mom, how did you even...? Okay, yes, mh, yes, I am also excited for tomorrow night... yes, I picked a suit. No, it's not... mom, clothes don't have a sexuality. - he rolled his eyes – Yes, I'm still positive I'm gay. Yes. Mom, I like to suck dick, okay? - at which a couple of helpers of the shop turned, a bit perplexed, raising their eyebrows – Ah... look what fucking shows you make me... yes, yes, I'm with Francis. No, mom, he doesn't do meth. Yes, he is still half-gay too, yes, I know, people who keep liking what they like, groundbreaking. Yes, mom, I love you too... no, I'm not sarcastic at all. - he sighed, staring at the ceiling – Yes, bye, mom, bye.”

Francis let out a small breathy groan, “Let me guess, Cruella de Vil asked how I feel about my destiny to go to hell.”

“No, but she accused my shirt she never saw of being too gay.”

“How does your shirt like it: grinding, hot dog, classic buttsex?”

“I don't know, I mean, I would ask, but it's still accepting the shock of having a gender, so maybe we should ask your pants it has a relationship with.”

Francis gave a heart-felt laugh, “She is truly... creative.”

“I know, it's her best trait. - he sighed – At least, your mom is very sexual-positive.”

“The mom that at thirteen wanted to teach me how to eat a woman out?”

“Hey, it's useful stuff, maybe your talent in oral comes from that.”

“Sweetie, that's about my never-gotten-over Freudian oral phase. - he moved his hand caricaturally – My mom, though, most clearly plays a role in my extreme vanity.”

Antonio laughed a bit, then, suddenly, he seemed to get subdued, his eyes veiled in sadness. He gave Francis a fake smile.

“C'mon, let's continue to another shop.”

“Good, but before... - Francis held Antonio by the waist and pulled him closer – Where were we?”

Antonio couldn't reply if he wanted, because Francis' lips were over his own and it was perfect, as sweet as he remembered. Francis caught his lips and started licking them, pulling them a bit, painting them with his tongue – to which Antonio shivered – and then biting them slightly. Antonio could feel electricity running through him.

It was happening. And it was scary and beautiful and everything it was supposed to be.

Devastating and enchanting and finally true.

He threw his arms at Francis' neck, pulling him closer and Francis took it as a free pass: he held Antonio stronger, his tongue now invading the other's mouth, tasting him like a man who lived in the desert who finally found water. It was eager, desperate.

His hands divided: one from the waist went behind the back, pulling Antonio even closer, until their chest were attached, rubbing against each other, the other wen on his hips and started to caress Antonio's soft flesh. Antonio moaned into Francis' mouth and Francis swallowed that sound, finding pleasures in the squirmy movements and whimpering sounds – so tasty, so shattered – that were coming out of Antonio's delicious mouth.

He couldn't help but push forward, putting his tongue even deeper, possessing Antonio's mouth, making him rolls his eyes in pleasure.

Antonio felt weak, completely taken over, his hips starting to rub automatically against Francis, his mind going blank – he can't think, he couldn't even worry about if it's real. He just feels.

It was raw, true, red.

Francis sucked Antonio's silky lips, pulled them, his tongue dominated his mouth, filling it to the brink. His tongue was huge, strong, and Antonio could feel his knees resign as he imagined it around his, by now, half-hard cock.

He moaned harder, louder, and Francis smashed him against the wall inside the changing room, pulling the curtain in a second, closing them as much as possible. Antonio used the second of separation laboring to breathe, trying to calm his heartbeats, but his pants melted again inside Francis' as he started again to kiss him roughly.

Francis' mouth was ardent, fervent and feverish, his hands running again on Antonio's back and legs.

The Spaniard could feel himself giving in, losing all his resistances. He felt emptied, endangered.

Francis was taking over him completely and he didn't knew if would have had the strength to survive it, to survive it meaning less to him.

He pushed Francis back putting his arms between their chests. He could see the confusion clouding the other man's eyes, he could feel that sense of doubt crashing onto them: why?

“Fran...”

“Ye-yes?”

“What did you...?”

Francis froze in horror.

He thought, fuck, he didn't ask. He just did it out of impulse, out of thinking that maybe also Antonio did want it. Panic rose in him, his stomach twisting and hurting.

He tried to articulate an excuse, but he failed, looking just lost, on the verge to cry.

Antonio could interpret it just in one way, “Look... let's pretend it never happened.”

“But it did!”, Francis pleaded, his chest collapsing on his heart.

It did. It finally did. It motherfucking did.

“But it shouldn't have!”, Antonio roared, crying.

If Francis didn't love him, if Francis didn't felt the same, it shouldn't have happened; Antonio decided that was the best idea, so Francis could have been happy with Sadik, instead of getting trapped in a mistake of... what? Lust? Atmosphere?

Francis stayed mute, words dying in his mouth, losing all their meanings.

He never saw Antonio with such a mix of determination, rage and sadness in his face. He looked devastated, like he couldn't accept what just happened to them.

If Antonio didn't love him, if that was the only way to save their friendship, he should have kept silent; Francis opted then for nodding sadly, trying to push away the kiss he waited years for, because he couldn't have borne to break his best friend's trust.

“You are right... I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. - Antonio panted – It's... just a kiss.”

“...Just a kiss.”

“We did that already.”

“Not like this...”, Francis' voice vibrated with limpid sorrow.

Antonio clenched his teeth, suffocating back tears, “Please, let me forget it ever happened.”  
Francis nodded again, lifeless, then sat down, on the floor.

Life had nev er seen so dull, ravaged, stripped from all its colors.

He gave a weak, low sigh, then a wide, thin smile stained his face. He stared at Antonio's eyes, smiling, and whispered, with his more charming and sensual pitch, “As you desire, my dear prince of Borneo.”

Antonio brought the hands on his face, forcing himself not to make a sound, as he remembered, all at once, with all the pain of love, running with Francis in the fields, under the warm July sun, laughing, Francis pretending to be a knight and him pretending to be a pirate.

The soft brush of the wheat, the implacable heat of the sun, the honeyed smell of the wind : all came back to him, at once, stabbing him deeper.

A ring-tone, this time a quite standard one – Francis was not fond of technology, interrupted them and the Frenchman replied hurriedly, to escape the tension.

“Yes? - a moment of silence – Oh, yes, ah... I am with Toni right now, though, and...”

“I'd prefer to go home.”, Antonio stated coldly.

Francis' eyes widened, but he didn't let out a word, feeling guilty enough already, “He is going. Yes. Sure, I'd be happy to. - a brief pause again, again his eyes widening in sadness – Me too...”

“Sadik?”

“Not a very hard guess.”

“Sorry, fuck around more next time, so the game will get more interesting.”

Francis snapped, “Excuse you? Again this shit?”

“Should we treat it like an elephant in the room? Or is it because being captain obvious is no fun?”

Francis fumed, “You really should put this attitude up your butt, so at least something would go there once in a while.”

“Manwhore.”

“Prude.”  
“Promiscuous.”

“Frigid.”

Antonio shouted, “You know what? Go to Sadik and fuck in his fucking car, since you're in constant heat, it must be a torture not to fuck every hour.”

“How bitter can you be just because nobody rammed your thirsty ass already?”

“I hate you!”, he screamed.

Francis roared the words, clenching his teeth, “You don't.”

“No, but I wish I did!”

As soon as he said it, Antonio regretted it. He never thought that, he never... he couldn't have felt that way, he loved Francis.

“Francis, I...”

“Look, go... go back home or whatever. - his voice felt as ice inside, then he turned – We'll talk tomorrow.”

“W-won't you come home tonight?”, Antonio asked in a waxy, faint voice.

Francis gulped bitterness, taking his leave from the shop, “I need time to digest this.”

“Fran, wait, let's not do the misunderstanding cliche thing in which everything hurts and we hate each other until I realize I was a jerk, I do, I do already, I was a jerk. - he spoke quickly, afraid his friend would leave, but he stopped to listen – I don't mind your sexual habits. I am just... I thought I would have found Love, like you, but I never had the courage to search for it.”

Francis shook his head, before seeming angry or disappointed, but then he went towards Antonio and held him in his arms, close to his chest. Antonio tried to protest, in vain, Francis was caressing his head, humming to calm him down.

Antonio smiled, holding Francis back, putting his arms on his back, sniffing his shirt, with the nose on the curve of his neck and collarbones. He could smell the perfume Francis kept wearing and beyond that he could smell their scents, as they mixed a bit.

Francis sighed sweetly, keeping to caress Antonio's hair.

“I got why you are angry. - he smiled, holding him tight – You felt like I was going to leave you after we fought for Sadik. You felt unimportant, isn't it?”

Antonio didn't feel like lying anymore, but telling the truth would have required more courage of what he had and he just nodded, hiding his face in Francis' chest.

On the other side of the changing room, next to an extremely embarrassed and confused saleswoman, Sadik was standing, watching them, trying to find a way to understand, to justify. He couldn't. He just staid there, terrified.

 


	4. Chapter 4

I'm sorry to interrupt you before reading, I promise I'll be brief.

I wanted to thank the readers: your comments truly make my day/week/month. You are all extremely kind and I genuinely hope not to disappoint you! I also wanted to thank Mi and Lilith, who are reading the chapters in preview, bleeding blood at my typos and encouraging me in publishing all of this.

On a final note, I really hope some sayings, expressions or words are not plain wrong: since English is not my first (nor second, for the matter) Language, I tend to fuck it up sometimes.

* * *

 

_Seventh Chapter – Every you, every me_

* * *

 

“Good to see you two here. - Sadik gave a wide smile – All ok,baby? - his voice seemed to get kinder – Toni?”

Antonio widened his eyes in shock.

“Can I call you Toni, right?”

Francis felt relieved instantly as he saw his boyfriend trying to bond with his bestf... best friend he just made out with and had a spat with and, god, that was cheating. Sure, it was just a kiss, which is cheating, but in some cases (drunkness, extreme grief, break) are easily forgivable, but he was sure 'I always had a secret crush turning into Love for him and I am actually stubbornly trying to forget about him but today I felt my heart would have died if I didn't kiss him' was not an excuse the code contemplated as passable.

“Ah... Sadik, since...”

“I just saw you bickering, was it all fine? - he seemed genuinely worried much to Antonio's worry – Are you tense for the night with your moms?”

“Yes, yes. - Antonio gave the awkwardest of laughs – I was feeling pretty bad and Francis tried to advice me some clothes but, you know...”

Sadik's eyes gleamed.

“Oh, I see, well, family business always brings out the worse of everyone, doesn't it? - a smirk – Ah, now that it comes to me, aren't you like step-cousins actually? I mean...”

“It's just our grandpa... uncle, but grandpa. - Antonio replied, nervous – That's not, you know...”

“Enough for incest? - Sadik laughed – God, I have zero idea, but that'd be gross to me. - he put an arm around Francis – Thanks God, you don't do that, because it'd be really weird. - he smiled at Francis – Wouldn't it be, baby? Isn't he like a brother, after all?”

Francis' lips parted. A low breath came out, then he sucked his bottom lip, suffocating the answer, before finding the courage to speak up.

“Yes, he is.”

Antonio swallowed the sharp, bitter feeling. Why did Francis kiss him? Was it really just lust of the second?

“Anyway, I was wondering... - and then Sadik's tenderness became almost creepy, as he held Francis like a raptor, while staring at Antonio - ...why don't he also come to drink with us?”

“I don't know, Toni is...”

“Yes, I wouldn't want to intrude.”

“I am inviting you, no? Maybe we can try to truly work out a sort of... friendship between us.”

At Sadik's idea, it was hard for Antonio to understand what Francis was thinking. He seemed to tremble, but his eyes looked shiny, almost glad, yet scared.

It looked like he himself was trying to know how to feel.

Antonio decided he should have at least acted like a decent friend, “Then yeah, sure, why not?”

He didn't know what was going to happen, but, fair enough, he should have been warned by Sadik's sudden niceness.

They went to drink some wine outside, near Sadik's place, and Francis seemed to have the time of his life, laughing, smiling, with his eyes shining in the dark, blue evening.

Antonio felt his stomach twist with bitterness, whenever Sadik kissed Francis, claiming him, marking him in front of him with his lips and moves. Francis, to be fair, sometimes seemed a bit reluctant – not because he didn't enjoy the kisses, that was obvious, but as his eyes crossed Antonio's look. Maybe he still felt guilty for the changing room, fair enough, but he didn't plan to stop Sadik completely, fueled himself by the hurt of being refused.

And then Sadik said it, “Want to come over to my place?”

“It's becoming late, so...”

“I have some raki. - he grinned – And Francis' favorite gin. It'd be a shame to miss them.”

“Raki?”

“An anise liqueur. - Francis explained briefly – But I think it's too strong for Toni...”

Antonio felt his pride sting like an ember in his chest.

“No. I'd like to taste it.”

Sadik grinned, not waiting for anything else.

Now, obviously Sadik knew the right proportions between raki and iced water to make the drinking perfect and he also knew how badly Antonio could handle his drink. When he poured a full glass of raki with a minimum amount of water into it, he knew it was no more hazard but strategy.

Antonio drank it, stubbornly, despite the unconvinced Francis, who tried repeatedly to convince him it was enough. But nothing was enough when Antonio felt so empty.

He was on an armchair, while Francis and Sadik were sitting on a sofa and, every now and then, Sadik put his hands on Francis or touched his dick, glancing languidly at a, clearly willing, Francis.

Antonio could feel his cheek burn at the scenarios that was coming to his head, so he tried to go to the bathroom to jerk himself off or puke, he didn't decide yet.

As he tried to stand up, though, he limped and Francis burst out, “Now it's too much, I'm taking you home.”

“Baby, don't ruin the mood...”

Sadik pushed the bottle against Francis' lips, forcing him to open his mouth and welcome the strong, herbal gin. He felt his mouth burning, but, Christ, it was good. And his head started to feel light, like if it were filled with air.

It had always been pretty hard for him to get drunk or tipsy, but since he knew Sadik that was the second time he was losing his abilities to think straight.

Sadik started kissing him hard, possessively, filling his mouth with his huge tongue. He pushed the lover deeper in the sofa, trapping him with his hands, caging him with kisses and bites.

Francis smirked, naughtily, then let his hand slip between Sadik's thighs, starting to caress his hard-on, letting him know that he was still, tipsy or not, perfectly in control of the pleasure of both. Sadik gave a low grunt, moving his hips against Francis' big hand, that was already brushing and rubbing his cock mercilessly.

Sadik grinned and sank his teeth into Francis' soft neck, provoking the sweetest low moan, sucking his flesh, the skin dripping with pleasure. Francis could feel his arousal growing, his strength giving up under the touch of Sadik's mouth marking him.

Antonio gulped, staring as paralyzed on the armchair that started to seem like a prison by then. Just seeing Francis so aroused, for real, in front of him, made him half-hard.

Sadik knew it, oh, he did perfectly.

He wanted that? To prove Francis was his own?

Before Antonio could finish his thought, Sadik glared at him. A dark, sultry gleam was in his eyes. That look was not violent, even if Antonio felt he could have got swallowed in a couple of seconds, but more sensual, it was almost an invitation to stare, to enjoy the show.

Francis, though, seeing Sadik turning, realized too Antonio was still there, “Ah, we can't like this, c'mon... - his voice was strong, but already dusky, stained with need – He is there.”

Sadik smirked widely, unzipping Francis' trousers and caressing the growing pulsating bulge, putting small kisses on it, “Let him enjoy the view...”

Francis tried to protest, glancing at his friend, but Antonio did seem to enjoy watching. His eyes seemed kidnapped by the show, charmed, his mouth agape, his cheek slightly flushed.

Why was he...?

Sadik stoop off from the sofa and kneed between Francis' legs, striking his erection to fullness with a couple of well-adjusted pumps. Francis arched, jerking his head back with a mute gasp, when the Turkish man took his whole penis inside his mouth, sucking it with a lustful urgency.

Francis felt he could melt right there: Sadik's mouth was so warm and wet, his walls soft and ardent, his tongue enveloping his cock with taste and greed.

Francis sucked his lips, imposing himself at least not to moan in front of Antonio, but the more he tried not to, the deeper Sadik was taking him and the harder sucking. He started to caress his balls too, making it impossible to Francis to stop from moving his hips, bucketing into Sadik's mouth.

Sadik moaned, getting harder as his lover fucked his mouth, thrusting fully until he could, and pushing his own head against his erection, forcing Sadik to deep-throat.

Antonio found impossible to just sit there, by then. He was also growing hard staring at Francis' expressions: at his furrowed eyebrows, bitten lips, at the movements of his hips thrusting into a whimpering Sadik, who started to pump his own cock.

“Sad. - Francis tried to speak again, failing at keeping a calm pitch, as grunts of pleasure kept interrupting him – Make him go.”

Sadik stopped sucking, but he licked the full length of Francis' erection, then of his tip, letting his tongue torture the already needy and pulsating head.

“Let him join.”

Antonio knew it was suicidal, he knew it was more probably the worst idea he ever had. Yet.

Francis' mouth trembled with a swallowed up scream as Sadik passed his teeth on the side of his cock, while licking the tip ravenously.

Antonio went to them,eager, stupid; his eyes met Francis' and he pushed his mouth against his own, kissing him again, taking back the magic and the need of that kiss exchanged like thieves in a changing room. Francis replied, unexpectedly passionately, pushing his tongue into Antonio, while his hand went behind his head, forcing him closer. Sadik's smirk turned slowly into a frustrated frown.

Francis smiled in the kiss, his eyes shivering with a sweetness Sadik didn't want, not there, not for someone else. Antonio pushed more Towards Francis', kissing him roughly, with that bit more clumsiness coming from huge arousal more than less experience. Blood was rushing away from their heads quickly, running down.

Sadik stopped licking, leaving Francis puzzled and dissatisfied.

With a smirk sharper than before, Sadik took Francis' jaw, making him turn, interrupting his kiss with Antonio to start his own: licking his lips, biting them and pulling, letting Francis' taste the need to be feel their tongue melting together.

Antonio wondered where to go, his erection pulsating for attention, and started to stroke himself, staring at the other two making out, Sadik rubbing his ass on Francis' erection, as he would have liked to.

“Oh. - Sadik observed, wicked – He needs some attention too, after all.”

Antonio trembled, faced by two facts: Sadik hated him enough to bite his dick off during a blow job and he was too aroused at the idea of being fucked by Francis to back away.

The Turkish man took some lube, a pretty big bottle, actually, from a drawer and smeared some on his hands. Francis looked at both, endeared.

Sadik pushed Antonio on the sofa and grunted a dark, “It's easier if you turn.”

Antonio shivered in terror. Of all the ways he thought his first time would have been that one, no, that scenario was never predicted: a man he didn't love, he almost hated, sticking it in his butt without a kiss or anything.

Francis seemed to realize, “Wait. Sad. Let him be against me.”

“Mh?”

Francis seemed embarrassed, which, for him in bed, seemed impossible. Antonio deduced it being because he was a friend.

“This way he will feel a bit good, while you push.”

Sadik seemed unimpressed, almost angry, but he didn't protest.

Francis was half-laying on the sofa, keeping himself a bit up with his elbows, and Antonio put himself over him, slowly. Their dicks rubbed and Antonio suffocated a moan hiding his head in Francis' shoulder.

“Sssh... it's going to be fine. - he ensured, sweetly, kissing Antonio softly on his trembling lips – If you will want to stop, we will.”

But Antonio knew Sadik was not of the same opinion as he felt his fingers crawling their way inside his hole. It didn't feel painful, yet it was weird. He felt tense, wrong, and as Sadik pushed three fingers he jolted forwards, rubbing himself again of Francis' cock, making the other grunt.

That grunt, that wet, dirty, sound he provoked, filled Antonio with the drunk flavor of power, making him desire more of those. He started moving his hips, almost getting used to Sadik's fingers, almost forgetting them, enjoying fully the sensation of the pulsation erection of Francis against his own and how aroused his friend looked by him.

Sadik pushed a fourth, making Antonio choke on a moan.

“Oh. - Sadik's voice sounded sharp as needles – I thought you were a virgin.”

Francis' eyes widened, as he felt betrayed.

“I am!”, Antonio replied, quickly.

“Really?”

Sadik's mocking voice felt sticky on him, yet he found himself unwillingly enjoying also his movements inside him, the way his fingers twisted, making him rub and moan against Francis.  
“Y-yes.”

“Then you must have touched yourself a lot behind here. - he murmured, adding another finger and then opening them inside him, making Antonio arch – A, fucking, lot.”

Francis felt a bitter taste invading his mouth. The idea of Antonio masturbating, fucking himself – on what? Fingers, dildos? - the morbid curiosity followed by the horrific idea of him masturbating to someone. Someone else.

As Sadik got roughed, Antonio started to come undone, his expression was hotter, panting and desperate, his hips moving faster and faster against him. His forehead started dripping sweat.

Francis felt anger pulsating into him, the shame of his love making him more and more eager and the expression of that needy Antonio making his cock grow harder.

Francis licked Antonio's neck, like an animal making the flesh softer, and then bit into it. Antonio startled in pleasure,shaking his hips faster, which, to Sadik, was a green street light, as he entered, abruptly, into him.

Francis sucked the neck, tasting the shivers, the pulse of the blood, the olive skin stained with the sweet hickeys of the color of deep wine. Antonio was moaning, his voice more and more shattered, more and more drenched.

Francis smirked at his reaction, then, as he saw Sadik was inside, his arousal seemed to become closer to the angry need to possess.

He started to think, to feel, that Antonio might have liked Sadik that whole time, maybe that was why he was so against them together. Maybe Antonio was having the time of his life having his ass rammed by Sadik, pushed to the brink of coming.

He bit harder, the licked Antonio's collarbones, while his hand went down on their cocks and he started jerking them together, furiously.

Antonio felt completely weak. Electricity, shards of pleasure were taking him from both sides, leaving him unable to react.

He couldn't stop looking at Francis, as he was masturbating them both.

Sadik, though, never allowed him to forget his presence in his ass, pushing harder and harder, thrusting in his walls, loosing them.

Antonio could feel the satisfaction in Sadik's thrusts, the joy he was taking in possessing him first, in making him shiver both in annoyance and pleasure.

Sadik's pace got faster and faster, his hips slamming against his butt mercilessly, his balls hitting him and... god, he was all in, Antonio realized only then.

“Please, when you're...”

“What?”

“When you're close...”, his voice was little more than a breath.

Francis started to lick his nipple, while his hands were stroking their dicks and the other holding Antonio's back in position. Antonio gave an high-pitched sultry moan.

Sadik chuckled, “Well, wasn't that a slutty sound.”

Sadik thrust further and Antonio screamed, as the Turkish held his hips down on him.

Antonio looked at Francis, diligently licking his nipples, caressing his tip, making him about to come; he looked at those blond curls, about how he wanted his first time to be with him. Just him.

He bit his bottom lip, disappointed in how good he was feeling anyway.

“Don't come in...”, he let out.

Sadik scoffed, “We're all healthy, don't be a little bitch.”

“I don't wan yo-”

Sadik put a hand over Antonio's mouth and pumped harder. Antonio could feel him everywhere, his dick pulling his walls, pushing into him as he could find the end of it. Sadik was still holding him as Francis moved, stepping down from the sofa, and taking Antonio's arousal in his mouth.

Antonio's face melted, his tongue out, his eyes rolling to the ceiling. God, that felt like heaven,

Francis' mouth was perfect: sweet, hot, soft. Greedy.

Antonio moaned while Francis licked his head and then swallowed his cock again like he never tasted anything more delicious.

Sadik grinned, victoriously, pushing harder, seeing Antonio squirming and whining in pleasure.

He whispered in the Spaniard's ear, low enough for Francis, focused on giving the best blow job of his life, not to hear, “He sucks you like a vacuum cleaner, doesn't he? - he chuckled in Antonio's ear – He is all you ever wanted, right? Jerking you, sucking you off, I bet you would also like him to fuck the brain out of you. - Antonio got tighter around his cock – God, didn't know you would like it that much, you desperate needy whore.”

Francis pulled his hair back, licking Antonio's balls, sucking the skin lightly, the returning to the shaft, licking its whole length and sucking the tip gently, then swallowing it all again, wrapping it with his tongue, making Antonio bucket his hips against his mouth.

“I have a proposition. - Sadik whispered, still pumping in – Come into his mouth, then moan like the slut you are as I fuck you and I'll let you be fucked by him in peace later.”

Antonio shivered, by then too inside it to refuse and, as Francis sucked harder, came into his mouth with a high moan, falling back against Sadik.

Francis swallowed and passed the back of his hand against the lips. As he rose his look he met Antonio's eager and lustful eyes.

Sadik could feel Antonio getting tighter around him and came into him with a rough slam, making him scream more than moan but getting the elation he desired. He pushed Antonio with his face on the sofa and slipped out.

He looked at Francis' painfully swollen erection, pulsing with need of relief, and bent on him to kiss him. Francis' eyes were clouded by arousal, his wet lips parted, his tongue ardent, searching for more.

Sadik smirked, kissing him, slowly, their tongues twisting, their hands running over their bodies greedily.

“You drank it all. - he commented, licking Francis' mouth corners – Bet you need a bit more action, though.”

Francis nodded, parting Sadik's legs, but the Turkish gave a negative sign shaking his head, “Tut, tut, don't be selfish, my dear.”

Sadik went to Antonio and pushed him, fairly indelicately, on the floor and walked around him, like a vulture.

“You know what's my favorite quote, Fran?”

Francis stared at his lover, indecisive about talking, feeling destroyed at the idea of him and Antonio fucking again, of seeing Antonio whimpering again over Sadik's cock and, still, also, unable to go away, thinking that maybe he could have touched Antonio too... be part of his pleasure.

Sadik pulled Antonio's head up, showing to Francis how the Spaniard was again needy and panting, then declared, proud, “You'll find the shame is like the pain, you only feel it once.”

He let Antonio lay down and positioned himself over him, putting his knees close to his head and brushing his face with his penis. Antonio seemed still be wondering what Sadik wanted, until the Turkish started sucking his, now newly hard, cock.

Antonio gave a scratched scream.

Sadik took a break from his sucking to order, “If your throat is so dry, suck me.”

Antonio opted to disobey, for how long as his erection would have allowed him free will, and, instead, sucked two of his fingers.

As he looked up, he met Francis' trembling dense blue eyes and his cock, big and ready.

Antonio pushed his two fingers inside Sadik's ass, making him startle and almost choke. Annoyed, if not plain angry, he turned towards Antonio to put him in his place, but the Spaniard was staring intensely in Francis' eyes while fingering that ass like it was his own, slamming inside at the search of the sweet spot that would have unraveled every resistance and make Sadik crumble.

Sadik found himself returning on Antonio's cock, more to avoid moaning out loud than for real will to please the other; as for Francis, he bowed, kissing Antonio's mouth, while he still kept thrusting.

Francis tasted still a bit like him, or at least that's what Antonio decided, enjoying the slightly bitter aftertaste dominating the sweet mouth of the blond one. He also could feel the taste of Sadik's cigars but this just made him want to slam into the Turkish's ass more, making him squirm and whine like he did to him before.

It was clear to Antonio, as daylight, that he would have gone through even worse than Sadik to be close to Francis like that. He never felt so hot, so aroused, so needy.

“Fran...”

As he was called, Francis moved from the kiss, took out slowly Antonio's fingers, and entered into Sadik in one, fast, delicious thrust. Sadik moaned out loud, feeling his ass stretched to its limit, pulled by Francis' cock.

Antonio could just stare, mesmerized, as he had the best view he could wish for: Francis thrusting, furiously, savagely into an ass. Didn't matter if it was Sadik at that point, he would imagine it to be his own, trying to focus on just that sensation, while enjoying the situation.

As he started to moan and squirm, Sadik let Antonio's hardness slip out of his mouth, but then Francis smirked.

“Don't be selfish, my dear.”, he murmured, his voice then dark, intense, as he pulled Sadik's hair and forced him again to suck Antonio.

Antonio arched, pleased, moving his hips inside Sadik, while Franics started going faster and faster, in and out, pushing as deep as he could.

“Suck him well. - Francis whispered, now again in control, inebriated by the sensation of seeing both Sadik and Antonio squirming under him – When he comes, I'm going to give your avid hole its favorite treatment.”

Sadik obeyed without a blink, sucking Antonio harder, manual perfect, taking him balls-deep into his deformed mouth.

Antonio started to moan louder and louder, and, knowing he was already close, decided to cooperate more. He went for Sadik's balls, starting to lick them, making him confusedly shake his loins more and more against Francis, in the desperate need to be fucked harder. Antonio kept licking them and then the small flesh line that connected them to his asshole, stretched to its limit by Francis.

And, God, if his friend cock ever seemed big, in that moment, fully erected, pumping, it looked so huge that Antonio found himself more and more impatient to change position.

Sadik let out an annoyed moan, “Fran, please.”

“Please what?”

“Fuck me...- Sadik swallowed, feeling his cheeks reddening with humiliation at the idea of Antonio hearing him – Fuck me hard.”

Ask and it will be given to you; Francis seemed to feel flattered enough to put away every limit. He grabbed Sadik's wide hips and started thrusting faster, rougher. He bent forward, kissing and sucking Sadik's back, licking his spine – a frustrated moan, a whimpering grunt - while rocking harder. His movements got rougher, feral. Sadik held onto the carpet on the floor, trying to keep standing, while his knees buckled, weak for the pleasure, while Francis hit his prostate over and over, mercilessly pounding into it as he wanted to break him.

Sadik let out a wanton moan after the other, melting on the floor, coming right over Antonio's face, but Francis didn't seem to stop, pushing harder into him, making him feel raw and on fire. With a devilish smile, Francis returned to stimulate his lover's sweet spot, pulling almost out his cock and then slamming again so deep Sadik felt fucked to the core, hitting until Sadik came again, shaking and almost fell over the Spaniard.

“So... deep...”, Sadik just whispered, dry, exhausted.

Francis grinned, biting his lips, satisfied and gave another deep thrust, coming inside him in earnest.

Antonio rolled to the side, letting Sadik lay down. Francis sat on the sofa, his breath cut a bit short.

“God, I love you...”, Sadik half-murmured half-whined.

Francis smiled, but didn't reply.

Antonio couldn't stop staring at Francis, hoping the next thing was going to finally be them, if not just them, at least directly them. He wanted Francis inside. He waited too many years to stop any before.

Sadik seemed a bit worn-out, so Antonio figured he had to be the one to stimulate the action, if he wanted it to happen.

He went to Francis and started kissing his legs, small, tender, kisses, the ones he always wanted to give him, he caressed with his lips his thighs, licking the sperm that was still dripping from his cock and balls. Francis looked at him eagerly, biting his bottom lip in an attempt not to slam him on the floor and fuck him already, and Antonio knew.

He felt great, he felt powerful.

Francis wanted him, he wanted to bang his brain out, to break his ass in two.

There was nothing better.

“Please... - he unleashed the moistest, wanton voice he could, as he stared, intensely, without a blink, into Francis' eyes - … my hole needs more.”

He could see Francis' cock hardening in front of him and he smirked, faking innocent surprise. Francis gave a low graveling, liquorous growl.

“Fuck me.”

Francis was not sure if it was one of his dreams again, because, damn, Antonio was basically begging him while sitting between his legs, with those baby eyes and the most perverted face ever.

God, he could have slammed into him in a second.

Sadik, though, came behind them, pulling Antonio's hair, “Not so quickly, _puta_.”

Francis stood up, “Don't go so far... - he kissed Sadik's jawline – I don't like your insulting him.”  
“He likes it.”, Sadik stated, as Antonio failed to hide his dick throbbing.

Francis felt bitter again, confused. Did Antonio really want Sadik to...?

“You'll fuck him second, ok? I want another round in his ass.”

Francis nodded, lost, looking at Antonio's eyes trying to understand what he wanted and giving up. Sadik let Antonio's hair go and the Spaniard panted, in pleasure mixing to pain.

Sadik started kissing Antonio behind the ears, breathing on them to make him shiver; Antonio detested to admit he did feel good, but he was there for Francis and having to wait more made him impatient.

“Go on all fours on the sofa. - he basically ordered – I'll try to be gentle.”

Antonio followed, making sure to keep staring at Francis, in hope to make clear to him what he wanted; but Francis seemed distracted, almost hurt, as he kept running away with his eyes as Sadik caressed Antonio's thighs and erection, relaxing him.

Sadik poured a generous amount of lube inside Antonio, squeezing directly the bottle inside the hole, making him and his dick twitch. He entered without any other gentleness, but by then Antonio didn't care. It felt wrong, yet good.

Sadik pulsing into him, pushing, thrusting made his knees weak and his cock hard and full. Antonio swallowed a squirmy sound, as the Turk started to move faster, roughly, stretching him carelessly.

Antonio kept looking at Francis, his mouth agape and out his tongue, hoping to arouse him. And Francis was aroused, but he didn't seem to be able to bear watching him, he passed his hand on his hair, pulling them behind.

“Baby, come here. - Sadik grunted – Take me while I take this one.”

Antonio seemed to want to protest, but that just made Francis more decisive about stepping in: he wouldn't have been forgotten. He stroke himself to full hardness and started rimming Sadik, slowly, voraciously.

With a horny, wet, grunt, Sadik started to thrust faster into Antonio, swaying his hips crazily forward and behind, caught between two pleasures. Antonio held onto the couch as Sadik started slamming hardly if not beastly.

Francis insinuated his tongue into Sadik's hole, caressing the lines of it and then slipping in, warm, into the flesh. Sadik starting moving against Francis' tongue, trying to get it as inside as possible, while his lover pushed him more towards Antonio and took the latter's erection in his hands, jerking it.

Francis' tongue was big and hot; Sadik could feel sparks running through his hole, but he wanted desperately more, feeling still empty.

He started to jolt quicker inside Antonio, provoking a series of squirmy, whimpering moans, that Antonio tried to suffocate – God, was that really his voice?

He pushed harder, as he had to open him in half, urgently trying to find relief from the painful erection. Antonio's moans, though, served Sadik's purposed, angering Francis.

As he entered, thrusting abruptly, Sadik almost fell over Antonio with all of his weigh, like if he got powerless. Francis pulled out his cock and then pushed it all back in in just one thrust, so that Sadik shouted the sluttiest moan, banging Antonio erratically while having Francis drilling inside him, rocking again st his sweet spot, driving him insane.

Antonio could feel Sadik still growing and slamming, panting as Francis kept stroking his dick, but it was the sounds Sadik made to arouse him the most: he could hear in his voice, reduced to the whines of a whore, how he was going to be fucked later, out of himself, insanely good. He turned a moment, just to look at Francis and, God, what he saw.

He was there, straight, moving his loins in harsh pushes, his face a bit tensed , showing his teeth, his hair ruffled, his forehead finally beaded with sweat. Antonio couldn't help but take out his tongue in a grimace of pleasure as Sadik sank into him deeper, coming undone, while Francis pressed his prostate, slamming wildly.

Francis slipped out of Sadik, his dick still pulsating and kissed him on the lips, softly, delicately.

Antonio stared at Francis, eagerly, by then both his eyes and his cock throbbing and dripping need.

Sadik separated himself a bit, sitting on the floor, trying to get back a good heartbeat pace. He felt bitter, angry, seeing them still hard, going closer, but he didn't have the energy to interrupt yet.

Francis went close to Antonio and started caressing him, gently, running his fingertips on the skin of his thighs, passing his sweet touch over his back. His lips were like fire as he brushed soft kisses over Antonio's back, making him arch, moan with shivers.

Just the touch was enough, just the touch was too much.

Francis started to lick his spine, making Antonio sway his hips, like he was thrusting them, then he kissed his ass, fondling him, kneading it almost enchanted by how soft it was.

“You're gorgeous.”, he murmured.

His voice was hoarse with effort, dark with arousal. His scent came out more than usual, like if all the perfume went away from him, it was temptingly musky, salty and briny like the sea.

Antonio's breath started to get thinner and weaker.

“Please, Fran... I need you.”

Francis blinked: not 'it', but 'you'. He was wanted, he was needed. Even if just for sex, even if just as a cock inside him, at that moment Antonio wanted him.

Antonio was pleading him.

Francis turned him, making Antonio touch the sofa with his back.

“This is better.”, he smiled, looked at Antonio in the eyes, losing himself into how green they shone in lust and happiness.

Antonio smiled back, in an almost innocent, child-like way, his teeth a bit over his bottom lips. He put his arms on Francis' back,enjoying the possibility to caress him.

His back just felt so good, so soft and yet he could feel his bones sticking a bit out, like he had wings. His fingers run on it, interlacing over his shoulder blades.

Antonio parted his legs, waiting, while Francis seemed to want to take all the time in the world, kissing him slowly, gently on the neck, sucking his lobe until it was purple, tracing his muscles with the tongue, tormenting sweetly his nipples.

Antonio gave an impatient and frustrated moan, “Please!”

As he felt Francis' head against his entrance, Antonio was tempted to change his mind, but his hips, instead, started rubbing on it, tempting, making Francis' restrictions failed. He thrust, deeply, all in once, tensing his flesh until Antonio felt open.

He was so thick, so huge.

Antonio's eyes shut wide open and he lolled his head back in a gasp of utter pleasure.

He was spreading open, scorching arousal filling his guts, heat pooling in his crotch.

God.

It was heaven.

Francis panted: Antonio felt so tight around him, he had to keep himself calm. He just felt so good around him, so soft.

Slowly, Francis started to work a rhythm that allowed him to both arouse Antonio more and more and not hurt him. As he felt Antonio was ready for more, while caressing his hair, he started to go faster, thrusting a bit deeper – which Antonio couldn't believe it was even possible since he already felt completely filled, like there was no place untouched, no inch inside him that Francis' cock was not ravaging.

“More...”, he whispered, his accent getting thicker with arousal.

Antonio sank his nails into Francis' back, driving him insanely aroused, as the pain of the trenches seemed to be as deep as the pleasure Antonio was being shaken by. As he felt the skin burn and bleed, Francis smirked wickedly.

Francis pinned Antonio down by his wrists and slammed into him harder, almost tearing him. Antonio shouted a moan, his voice undone, melted, needy beyond compare.

Francis started drumming into him, sinking fast and deep, torturing Antonio's prostate, slamming into it each time. Antonio arched, biting his lips while growling a “yes”, arching his feet. The heat was pulsing inside his throbbing cock, begging for more, as he whined.

Francis could feel his hips burning in pleasure too, while he sank and Antonio's hole was getting tighter around him, shook by the sparks of arousal.

“God...”, Antonio let out in a slutty moan.

Francis saw his friend's leaking dick and decided to finish it soon. He caught Antonio's mouth in his own, smiling in the kiss, entwining their tongue, while slamming into him, each thrust stronger and more profound. Antonio's wrists were shaking under Francis' grasp.

Not able to control his hips anymore, Antonio started moving towards Francis, while he drilled his sweet spot one more time, thrusting and coming onto it, leaving all Antonio's limbs shaking in utter bliss.

Antonio came right with him, giving an half-lidded smile to Francis, as they broke their kiss.

It felt like the first time they truly saw each others' eyes.

Francis smiled, caressing Antonio's hair and putting them gently behind his ear.

“Hey.”  
“Hey...”

A moment later something stung inside Francis and he turned quickly, the spell being broken. He saw Sadik trying to put his fingers inside him, even dry.

“Sad, no. - the Turk gave a smirk and pushed one finger in – I said no!”

“You're so tight...”, he commented, trying to add another.

Francis' eyes widened in rage and, turning completely, hit Sadik in the face with his elbow, making him back off on the sofa.

“I said no, fuck off!”, he screamed, his breath shaking and flailing. His chest seemed on the point to explode, his eyes horrified.

 

* * *

 

_Eighth Chapter – Balmy Twilit Rain_

* * *

 

He pretended he didn't notice.

He wanted to not have noticed.

But he did and now he couldn't stop thinking about it, he couldn't stop hoping that, maybe, in some absurd way, Antonio did like him.

“It's ridiculous. - he imposed himself to think – It was probably just... the mix of drinking and... the mood.”

But his mind kept going further, imagining Antonio smiling at him differently the day after or kissing him more.

He couldn't lie to himself: doing it with Antonio felt different. Sure it was cheesy to admit, but it was true... and Francis was sure it was not just for him. The way they looked at each other, the way they spoke, the gentle trembling of their breathe mixing... yes, yes, he was sure, something was there!

Something sweet, something more.

Francis was walking smiling from ear to ear, almost dancing in the streets, humming a song way too sweet even for his tastes. The streets of Paris never seemed more kindly illuminated, more brightly blessed by the blissful sun.

His stroll to the University was long and pleasant, surrounded by the warm scent of apricot jam on croissants and the gliding dance of the waves in the river.

Ah, that was going to be a beautiful day!

When he entered the Faculty building, immersed in the calm and majestic white and the atmosphere as angels descended from Heaven, even the panicky hordes of crying students didn't seem to shake him away from his mood; at least until he had to sit next to one of them: Abel.

Polar opposite of his younger sister, Emma, Abel had two moods: public and private. Outside his room or a tight circle of friends, he was the wardrobe-sized version of Scrooge McDuck or, as he preferred, the portable-edition of the iceberg that sank the Titanic, with his two meters of missing joy of living and never reported ability to smile; when he relaxed or nobody watched, he, though, seemed to transform in the good twin, with an unexpected care for flowers, an adoration for bunnies ( he had five: Escher, Kooning, Bosch, Rembrandt and Mr. Floppy ) and a secret love for poetry. Seeing him in the Literature department of the library was always a pleasure: seeing him extremely focused on a poetry book, with his serious serial killer expression, while internally crying at beauty and cute animal metaphors. But, that day, his look was even darker.

“Good morning! - a pause – Whoa, who spit in your omelette?”

“Destiny. - he growled – Kiku said no to living together.”

Francis lifted an eyebrow, “Aren't we a bit... young for that?”

A glare pierced him, “He is older than us, remember?”

“How older can he be, he looks barely seventee...”

“Thirty.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ. Did he bathe in the blood of virgins? If I knew it worked, I wouldn't have been so strict on Erszébet Báthory.”

“I know. - Abel sighed – He said I've been neglecting my studies for him and that, unless I prove him that I really can manage both, he doesn't want to burden me further.”

Francis furrowed his eyebrows, “Does he speak like a Kurosawa movie also in bed?”

“Only occasionally.”

“Is it some form of foreplay, like are you Toshiro Mifune in the Seven Samurai or you go more for the anime kind of fantasy where...”

“Francis.”

“Yes?”

“Or you help or you shut up.”

“Geez, you know, you are a very cute potimarron under all those layers of rock, distain and barbed wire, could you let it shine?”

“What the hell is a potimarron?”

“Your life is sad and tasteless, just so you know. - Francis started to mumble loudly – Well, what's your plan?”

“Study and get a good mark.”

“...okay, that's the boring plan, the chess club plan, the Virgin Cuba Libre plan, now I want to hear the one I'll like.”

Abel gave him an uninterested look, “There's no other plan.”

“Good, but think about this: if you just do well in the exam without confronting him, then he'll do this same thing the next time you're going to neglect something. You should clarify to him how you feel. - he stared intensely in Abel's eyes – How do you feel?”

“Annoyed.”

“That's something, that's something. Go on.”

Abel kept glaring, looking done, sucking his lips and massaging his forehead.

“You know that feeling when you remember homicide is illegal...”

“Can you stop with the I'm a bear act? I know you since we were fifteen, I saw you during your Neon Genesis Evangelion phase and I remember your Rei Ayanami figures collection, you can't now do the scary-scary thing.”

Abel sighed, “I... I should speak to him, but I'm not very good at it.”

“How come? You two look like the type of couple that doesn't have problems in understanding each others.”

“He is stubborn. - he sighed – Once he sets his mind on something, it's useless.”

Francis smiled, like he knew something the other couldn't even imagine, then he put his hand in the air dramatically, “Abel, Abel, he is worried he'll damage you. He's well conscious of the power of Love and how it can also lead to self-destruction.”

“... eh?”

“Kiku is responsible and self-sacrificing, he takes as a matter of pride his independence. - he waved a fist in the air – And, exactly because he values it so much, he can't take it away from you. He is afraid to be your drug, your addiction!”, he concluded, staring in the empty horizon in front of him.

Abel blinked, irritated.

“What happened to you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, the Love-there-Love-here speeches are a classic, but today you seem more... - a sigh – Over the top than usual... so did you have a marathon of 40s movies or is your brain collapsing under a disproportionateproduction of Oxytocin?”

“Or maybe I'm a finer connoisseur of the human soul than you.”

Abel shook his head, smiling, “You can keep the title, I dislike humans.”

“Yes, those dirty scumbags that invented art, I mean, look at spiderwebs, aren't they more moving?”

“Funny. - he admitted – I mostly dislike them out of very personal reasons: I don't get them, they are loud and our cubs instead of being balls of fluff are screaming wrinkly raisins possessed by Satan.”

“...I'm so glad you can't have kids you have no idea.”

“I will die old and surrounded by bunnies.”

“At least they won't eat your corpse. - he mumbled – But, technically, they could eat all your flowers.”

“Emma would kill them anyway in one week.”

Francis chuckled, “I'm afraid, at least with Kiku you should be able to communicate, though.”

“Ok, but what should I tell him?”

“How you feel: told you. - he groaned – Why you never listen to my perfect advice? - he sighed dramatically – Why don't you write him a poem or find one that fits your emotions for him?”

“...this is what people that don't study poetry do.”

“Even if they do or make mistake, they're expressing their genuine heart whispers. - Francis claimed – Which is brave and respectable. You can do it better, knowing more poems and knowing them deeper... sure, it might be sappy, but don't we study art because we find it able to be much more than just itself?”

Abel rolled his eyes to the ceiling, “You're a waste here. You should have become a lawyer.”

“It would have been boring.”

“Your constant need of strong emotions is your curse.”

“Despite all my rage, I'm still just a rat in a cage.”, he half-hummed.

Abel raised an eyebrow, confused about what Francis could mean, but he didn't get to ask, since his attention dropped on something else.

“Your shoulder is scratched.”

“Ah... - Francis blushed a bit, remembering – Oh, yes, you know, yesterday was a bit...”

“Save me the details.”, he ordered returning with his look on the books.

Francis pouted, “Mean.”

Abel lifted his face, “On a second thought, no... - he mumbled – Tell me the detail that changed your mood so much.”

“Well, you see... it was a bit different than usual.”

“Did you use the Supreme Annihilator 18 inches?!”, he shouted, a bit too loud, making a couple of girl turn in horror.

Francis frowned, “Wait, so you do listen to me when I speak about this stuff.”

“I might be waiting on your review to decide whether or not to buy it.”, he admitted, infinitely embarrassed.

Francis would have normally pressured a bit more the friend to enjoy his flustered expression, but he decided to go further.

“No, it was... the person.”

“Did you cheat on Sadik?”, a sting of judgment in his voice.

“No. No! No, God. - Francis swallowed, feeling vulnerable – I... Threesome, ok?”

“Kinky. - Abel commented a bit absentmindedly, then he stared again at Francis, at how happy he looked, at how he moved a bit while sitting, and his eyes widened like they had to drop out of his skull – You fucked Antonio!”

For the second time the girls turned, this time mostly perplexed.

Abel had to make a huge effort to return to speak and he almost hissed, the words coming out crunched and heavy, “You... fucked Antonio, didn't you?”

“How do you-”

“Finally! - he mouthed – Finally. Also the Jewish people must have found their messiah! The time has come!”

Francis stared at him, offended, “And then I'd be the one over the top.”

“I'm sorry. - Abel took out of his pockets the mobile – I'm just kind of surprised.”

“Mh... what are you doing?”

“Sending Emma a text, I won a bet, fifty euro.”

“Fifty euro?”

“That you two would fuck before finished University, to be fair, Kiku lost thirty last month because he was sure he would have confess himself after that time dinner, when Sadik let you down.”

“He had digestive problems. - Francis wanted to highlight, then realized – Wait, wait... confess?”

Abel stopped typing and his eyes looked suddenly sharp and dry, the bags under them bigger, “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean!”

“He didn't tell you anything? You didn't tell him anything?”

“What are you speaking about?”

“The... thing, the Francis and Antonio thing... the thing you do, the one where you constantly flirt and drool all over the other one and never admit you like each other...”

“I don't... like Toni, I mean... he is my friend but I'm with Sadik and he loves me and...”

“Who are you lying to? - he blinked – I am not stupid.”

Francis shouted, “Don't make fun of me, Abel.”

“You're making fun of yourself. - he pointed out – You really can't lie like this: you do like Toni.”

Francis bit his lips, violently.

“I... whether I do or not, I don't know what he feels.”

“Then go and ask him, duh? Even if, look, people running a sports book behind your back should tell you something...”

Francis shivered, angry. He felt good that day, but then he just felt ridiculous and made fun of.

All his doubts, all his fears to others were funny.

To those people his heart breaking over years was something to find mildly goofy.

“Do you think I wouldn't have noticed if my best friend liked me?”

Abel blinked slowly, “Did he notice you do?”

“No... - he shook his head – Look, I thought he could during it, but I am not sure, maybe he just had a bit of infatuation because of the sex, I'm great, ok?”

“...this is both the most belittling and the most arrogant sentence I ever heard and I am not sure from which side to take it to put it in my ears without them bleeding.”

“He was always jealous of my boyfriends or girlfriends, since always, really.”

“Which could lead us to the obvious conclusion I suggested, but I have the sensation it's not going to happen.”, Abel murmured, starting to give up.

“I can't risk him saying no.”

Abel sighed, “I can understand that, but shouldn't you... at least, since it's clear to some people by now, try to take some steps to see if he does like you? - his pitch was strangely comforting – You hid yourself so deeply inside your fear, so sure he wouldn't love you back, that you can't distinguish anymore a shelter from a prison.”

Francis' heart seemed on the verge of failing.

A shard of sharp pain struck his chest.

His eyes started to shine, watery, “But... I could ruin our friendship forever... and I would break Sadik's heart too.”

Abel frowned: Francis did seem honestly worried about both possibilities.

“Didn't he notice anything during sex?”

“No... I don't know... - he paused – But the last time, I refused him. I asked sorry after but I got scared and hit him, he tried to enter.”

“But you don't like it in the butt, why would he?”

“No clue. He seemed... cold.”

Abel clacked his tongue against his palate, thinking, crossing his arms, “Weird guy.”  
“He's sweet. - Francis swore, his eyes a bit sadder, his voice softer – He is so kind and tender. He is sincere, honest, he is a bit possessive at times but he truly tried to make friends with Toni.”

“By suggesting a threesome?”

“How do you-”

“None of you two ever tried to kiss the other and you would have suggested a threesome? That would have been a plot-hole.”

Francis groaned, “Point being: I like Sadik. A lot. I loved Antonio, ok? Here, you have it. I did, for years, but I don't think he did. I don't think he ever will.”

“Try anyway.”

“Can I afford the risk?”

“Can you afford to give up the investment? Didn't you put enough of you already in the pot?”

Francis hesitated. He looked about to burst in crying, but he gained control of himself, caressing his locks a bit, rolling some on a finger nervously.

“I'll try to talk to him.”

Abel grinned, proud, “Good. Now, though, since you look exhausted, I humbly propose to pretend we studied all morning and to go get you a coffee.”

“You're weirdly motherly today.”

“I'll pretend you're a bunny. - he stated, faking superiority and coldness – Since it's more practical this way for today.”

Then he collected his books with a low whistle and invited Francis to do the same, exiting from the library quickly, with sudden sadness of the girls, by then interested in what was going on.

While they were comfortably sitting in from of a cappuccino, Francis felt the sinister vibration of his mobile. He looked on the screen to find out it was Antonio.

“Hey.”

A small gulp from the other side, followed by a weak, “Hey.”

“How... how are you?”

“All ok. - a moment more of silence – I didn't see you this morning.”  
“I went out early to study with Abel.”, he explained, softly.

“I see. Mh. Fran?”

“Yes?”

“Can we speak about it?”

“Do you want me come over there?”

Antonio took another moment before answering, Francis could feel his breath growing heavier and tenser, “If you have to study, it can wait...”

Francis' chuckle came out unwillingly more sensual than he intended and Antonio felt his stomach tightening.

“Don't be an idiot. I'm arriving.”

Antonio gave a small laugh, “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. - he looked at Abel, saying – I'm sorry, I have to rush home.”

“Ah, Fran...”

“Yes?”

“I miss you.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

_Ninth Chapter – That pale moonlight_

* * *

 

Antonio couldn't stop thinking about it: the way Francis felt, the way Francis spoke to him. He was sure, he felt sure, they didn't just have sex, they made love.

A part of him, sure, was still panicking, but his heart knew what he felt, how Francis looked at him.

That 'hey' resounded in his heart like the echo of the most beautiful music.

He could still feel Francis' lips on him, running on his neck or chest, searching for his mouth. He could feel it and he begged the ghostly sensation to linger on his skin, to last, at least the time of another dream.

He breathed in the sweet memories, as outside a light rain started to caress the city.

He went to the window, touched it slightly, like he was almost afraid to break the spell of beauty over Paris.

“Toni...”

He turned, startled, “Fran. You came quickly.”

He looked a bit wt, probably the rain caught him the last minutes before he arrived, “I, emh... wanted to see you.”

Antonio shook away a small blush on his cheeks.

“Sure, umh, want a coffee? Just so this gets less... awkward?”

“Yes, I beg you.”

Antonio gave a laugh, going to the kitchen followed by Francis, who took off his light trench jacket and sat on one of the chairs.

“So... nervous about tonight?”

“You mean tonight as in the night we spent or like this evening when our mothers will dine with us?”

“Oh shit, I forgot your mom!”

“You seemed too calm.”

Francis put his hands through his hair, staring into void, “I didn't prepare psychologically at all...”  
“It won't be so terrible, c'mon...”, he mumbled, putting on coffee.

“Is there wine?”

“Your favorite. - Antonio laughed, giving it to Francis – Don't drink it from the bottle.”

“Then give me a glass.”

“Did you mistake me for the maid?”

“No, or I'd be fucking you.”

And then they froze, realizing they were speaking like usual. They let things go and they almost forgot they did fuck.

Were those jokes even allowed again?

What would have changed and how? How was going to become being them at that point?

“I am not sure how to handle it, I am mortified.”

Antonio sighed, giving them both coffee cups and taking out the milk from the fridge.

“I don't think there is one safe way to.”

“Is it... did it... did it mean something to you?”, Francis asked, first hesitating the bursting, panicky, his voice low and shaking.

Antonio swallowed, terrified: did he really have to be the first one to comment or say if he wanted it? Was that right? He wished Francis could have been more honest or be sincere first, saving him this embarrassment, and, even though he realized there was no reason for it, he truly wanted to be saved.

“Did it to you?”

Francis sucked his lips in silence.

He remembered Gilbert calling him a coward. Oh yes, he was.

Was he really ready to maybe lose Antonio as more than a friend just not to admit he loved him years?

“It's just... I am... I am with someone else and...”

Antonio let out a broken chuckle, “I remember that.”

“It was... Sadik's idea, after all.”

Antonio threw the cups down the table, yelling “Yeah, I wonder why! Take a hint!”

The sound of the cups shattering made Francis shake. He could feel his nerve tightening and a sparkle running through them. Anger.

“What do you mean? Take a hint? Give one!”

Antonio shouted out in range and threw down also the wine, staining the floor. Francis bent closer, “Are you hurt?”

“Yes! - he screamed – Yes, as always, like you do anything else.”

“I don't... understand...”, he whispered, scared, horrified. 

Did he? Did he truly hurt his best friend?

“Did you think I really wanted to lose my virginity in a fucking threesome? Do you think I wanted to have inside a man I don't love? - he shouted, seeing Francis' eyes widen in terrified sadness – Do you have any idea how shallow, how dirty it feels?”

Francis mouthed words he didn't manage to spell.

So it was true? That Antonio liked Sadik?

Maybe Sadik guessed it and that's why he invited him to join... that would have explained... but still. Ah, so... he was so stupid.

He thought Antonio could have loved him.

He thought so.

How pathetically idiotic.

A sad chuckle rattled out of his mouth, shivery and fragile as glass.

Francis kept staring at the floor, at the carpet stained with red wine, at the wet wood and the smell of rain entering from the windows.

“Then why did you do it?”

“Because it was the only way.”

“You should have told me when I asked if I could go out with him!”, Francis shouted.

Couldn't have Antonio told him? Couldn't have he warned him about liking Sadik?

How was he supposed to know.

He felt so deeply undesired.

He sucked his lips and bit them furiously, some drops of blood staining his chin. Antonio sated at him, paralyzed.

Francis seemed so frustrated, so heartbroken.

He was clenching his fists so hard the knuckles were completely white, his arm muscles shivering in rage, the hair on his arm tense too.

“Fran, I...”

“You should have told me before it happened!”, he shouted.

“I thought I could control it.”

“Do you think I'd ever want to hurt you? - tears streamed down his eyes, while he shouted more – Do you think I would have ever broke... my best... my friend's heart... your heart... willingly?”

Francis started crying with wrath. He felt so suffocated, his throat tied, frustration rising and burning his veins and brain.

He sniffed and Antonio tried to come closer.

He visioned when they were kids and one of them fell and hurt themselves... the other would always come and pet the head and say it was gonna be okay. He wanted to.

Francis jerked away, moving away from his touch, and it was there Antonio got it: it was not going to be okay.

Nothing would have been okay.

He could see Francis crying in front of him, not out of sadness, but out of wrath.

He could see the kid disappearing.

He could see the man hating him.

The mature wheat under the sun that reminded him of those locks seemed to have gone grey.

They lost those fields of gold.

“Fran...”

“I'm leaving Sadik. But don't... don't speak with me... ever again.”

“What? - Antonio jolted – Why?”

“I'm not going to play the villain just because you didn't have the guts to speak! - he cried out, putting on his trench coat – I never meant to hurt you, you were just a coward hoping the world to turn the right way.”

“Fran, I don't... I'm not going to be with...”

“Like I could be with him now that I know!”

Francis could feel his heart physically breaking. It felt swollen, big, as if rain entered also there, his ribs felt too weak and fragile to bear it and they bent under its weight, becoming dust. His heart felt deformed and rotten.

He dried the tears from his eyes and went out of the apartment, slamming the door. Antonio fell on his knees and lingered on the wall, powerless.

He took one of the glass shards in his hands, sighing. Its reflection was slightly blue, as Francis' deep eyes.

After some minutes, he decided to call his mother and ask her if they could meet the evening after, since him and Francis felt very sick, probably due to eating something bad; his mother complained quite a bit about spending the night at the hotel, but then resolved to go visit the Tour Eiffel after a good passive-aggression session.

As he put down the phone, Antonio was left alone in the mute, dark apartment, and, like a ghost, he started to see his place differently: colder, more distant, harder for him to feel he belonged to.

He caressed Francis' room door, lingering his hand on the cherry wood.

“Would you mind, - he whispered – If I slept in your bed? Between your things, immersed in your smell?”

The door couldn't reply.

The emptiness neither.

But all of it surrounded it, with the weight of all things lost.

He opened it, feeling as he was betraying his friend once more, maybe for the last time.

Francis' room was different from his own.

Antonio was admittedly messy and simple, his room was bright reds, yellows and white, some posters, a bunch of CDs, stuff everywhere, his old acoustic guitar, the books piled up in random points of the room.

Francis' room was... equilibrium. A weird, sad, cadenced research of equilibrium and beauty.

The walls were periwinkle – they laughed at him months saying it was a gay color, but Francis didn't mind at all and, in the end, Antonio thought, you have to be really confident of your manhood to pick periwinkle – and all around there were shelves full of books, every literature piece that Francis read: loved, liked, loathed, everything. From his beloved Hugo or Dumas to his most despised Dickens, everything found a place into his heart.

There was no trace of music, since Francis was not so madly fond of it and just listened to it on the internet or on the mp3 – he loved to sing, he sounded beautiful, but he didn't love music as much as poetry. At the desk, some postcards from the travels they had together: ah, that time in Casablanca, those days in Florence, those beautiful weeks in Berlin... he kept them all.

He always kept all about them.

On the desk, right next to the pens, stayed a small sheaf of wheat, dried in a wood frame.

Their fields of gold...

He took it in his hands, sitting on the bed. Ah, it was soft.

Black silk sheet.

Pft, he was always like that. Treating himself like a prince...

Like he never felt.

“I'm sorry I never told you...”, he whispered, caressing the thin glass holding the wheat, slowly, gently.

The sound of rain got more and more distant, the hue of the sky grew darker.

“I was afraid to lose you... - he chuckled, the sounds coming out in pieces – I love you. I always, always, always loved you.”

His chest shook, tears running from his eyes and nose. He tried to fight it back, then let go.

It was useless.

As he put down the frame, he noticed something: in the lower shelf of Francis' bookshelf, where his notebooks were, there was one he never saw. It was fat, in fact, it was five or six notebooks sewed together, and of a shining, deep, old gold.

Antonio shook and grabbed it.

Should he have? He wondered a bit, then realized there was a chance to never see Francis again, that everything would have changed for the worst and that he did, he truly did have to eat of him all he could then, in a crazy, bulimic, overdose of him.

He recognized immediately Francis' calligraphy but he couldn't avoid to notice it was quite old, he looked quickly and saw the last pages had a fairly more recent style, like of his last signs. That notebook was really full of years.

He wondered why separating some of his poems, like in a golden ghetto.

“The Open Book”, he read on the first page and giggled. 

But as he turned the page, finding the first poem, his smile dropped.

 

_Today_

_I touched myself,_

_I violated_

_the skin you never felt,_

_I tore_

_the heart you_

_didn't_

_want. Today,_

_those fields_

_heard my moans – crashing_

_against_

_empty skies_

_burdened_

_by your absence._

 

 

_Your tanned neck_

_of the caramelized_

_color_

_of sand_

_and desire_

_haunts me_

_and my shivering teeth,_

_pained_

_by not biting_

_it,_

_not sinking_

_into it. I'm a_

_starving beast._

_The desert_

_burns my lungs._

 

 

_My soul_

_pukes_

_and acid_

_melts_

_my heart. As you_

_speak_

_about him,_

_I wish_

_I could not want you._

_The love I waste_

_pours salt_

_over my soul._

 

Antonio paused, feeling his chest contracting.

How stupid was he?

Why had he been so stupid?

Francis did love him. He did. All those years, all those moments, they spent them together and Francis felt the same.

He couldn't stop himself from smiling wide, ear to ear, and rushed through the street, before realizing he had no idea where Francis was.

“F-uck.”

He grabbed his mobile phone, altered by the rain, and managed to get the number of somebody he knew he could have trusted on that.

“Gil? … Yes, I'm sorry, amh... can I ask you to call Francis? As... no, look, don't tell him it's me, ok? I just need to know where he is but he is not going to tell him, can't you like... ? Yes, yes, that would be perfect. Okay, I'll be there. Ah... Gil... you are great!”

He returned up and got the notebooks and his guitar, rushing then to Gilbert's place.

In the meantime, Francis was strolling down Notre-Dame, searching for comfort in the shining raindrops, in the day turning to a soft evening and in the welcoming beauty of the marble. He breathed in the balmy, balsamic scent, the softness of the shades of white, glimmering with the colors of the glass windows, the space, the strive and the rush towards a never reached heaven.

He sat at the feet of the Jeanne d'Arc statue, leaning on the back of the wooden chorus, staring at the mute beauty and the silent faith.

“You still hide in here then.”

He turned slowly, meeting an old priest. He didn't stand up, recognizing him.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned too much and too long.”

The priest chuckled, then a old cough came out of his mouth, “Don't need those formulas with me and you know...”

“Am I even admitted in this church, as I lost my faith?”

“Everyone is always admitted in the church. - he smiled – Whether for its beauty, for god or for shelter... God's veil over our heads is not picky.”

Francis' eyes were shining with tears he pushed back, but his face was still red for the past ones. The priest sat next to him.

“You still like her a lot, don't you?”

Francis nodded, staring at the statue, “She calms me down... she looks like nothing can... put her down.”

“And you know why?”

“Faith in God?”, Francis sighed, almost groaning.

“Now now, wouldn't make me kind of bad making advertising right now? - the priest mocked – I know you since you were a little squirt, Francis, I didn't force you to be confirmed and I won't force you now to believe...”

“Maybe I would if I didn't have God telling me I'll burn in hell.”

The priest laughed, “No, you are a stubborn Robespierre just like your mother... I still think she got confirmed just to have a pretty wedding dress...”

“She did.”

“Had no doubts in twenty two years.”

Francis laughed, sadly, his voice salty with tears.

“Father, do you ever want to... you know... love?”

“I'm flattered, but you are a bit too young and hairy for me.”

Francis smirked, smug, “I'm deeply offended. But I meant it as... do you ever feel tempted beyond your votes?”

“Well, when I was younger...”

“And how did you stop?”

“What's tormenting you, Francis?”

“I still like him... the boy I liked ten years ago...”

The priest seem to look further away than the walls of stone and glass in front of them.

“Did you search a physical interaction with him?”

“We had it! - he shouted, ranting – And I thought it meant something to him! It meant the world to him but then I just discovered he wanted to be with my boyfriend the whole time and I was there just being the third, like the thing he got but...”

“...I don't really want to ask what you mean with that, do I?”

“Probably no.”

The priest sighed, “Did you confess your feelings?”

“Why? He doesn't share them.”

“To leave them in the wind. - he smiled – The wind always welcome every word we throw at it. And sometimes it frees us from their weight.”

“I... I think I'm going to die.”

“For love? - he shook his head – No, my child, love is not a deadly poison.”

Francis smiled, closing his eyes, comforted by the soft light entering by the windows and the gentle hand of the priest ruffling his hair.

“Mh, your...something is vibrating.”

“Ah! - Francis caught the mobile, then stared at the number, wondering what to expect – Yes? … hey... yes, mh, sure. It's okay, I am not angry anymore... No, I was not crying... - the priest smiled – It's just... an effect of the mobile, yes. Ah... I miss you too... - he sucked his lips – I am at...”

“... the cathedral.”, completed a voice behind him, putting down the call.

Francis turned, smiling, surprised.

“How did you?”

“I know you well.”

“I imagined him a bit prettier.”, the priest mumbled to himself.

Francis jumped up, “Sadik, I...”

“I'm so sorry, I was horrible.”, he caressed Francis' curls, getting a confused look from the priest.

“Look, I understand why you did it.”

Sadik stiffened, scared, “You do?”

“Sure, you wanted to mark me. I'm a topper, I can understand that much.”

Sadik thanked God that his boyfriend didn't realize how possessive he could be yet, “Yes... I felt I was losing you there.”

“It's understandable... - he caressed Sadik's cheek, kissing it softly – You shouldn't have, but everyone can make mistakes... and you, you found me! - he smiled – It's incredible, it's...”  
“... almost as we are meant to be?”

Francis stared at Sadik in awe, his heart warming up and melting.

“...maybe. - he smiled, coming closer to his lips but gaining a cough from the priest – But this is not the place.”

Sadik sighed, “Do you want to go out for dinner tonight?”

“Sure...”

“What about Japanese?”

“You hate Japanese food.”

“But you love it.”

Francis smiled, “What about Italian, mh?”

“I'd love that.”

Francis didn't hear his mobile vibrating again, this time due to a Gilbert's call.

* * *

 

_Tenth Chapter – My mother likes him best_

* * *

 

“Why didn't he answer yet? - Antonio shouted – Do you think he hates me now?”

Gilbert stared at Abel and Emma and all of them came out with the same conclusion, “You were an idiot.”

“Why are you scolding me?”

“Why didn't you yell you love him?”, Emma complained, exasperated.

Abel nodded, “Everyone would have been shocked by being accused of hurting an important person.”

Gilbert completed, “Dude, you were harsh.”

“Okay, okay, you're right, I'm an idiot. I thought this was clear since years.”

“Good point.”

“Now why doesn't he reply?”

“Maybe he threw the mobile far away.”, Gilbert suggested.

“Improbable. He'll stare at it from time to time to see if you call, then ignore you to see if you will call again. - Abel explained – He is hurt.”

“Write him a text, saying you love him. So he will see it.”

“True, that would solve everything. He'd see it and come!”

“...but I don't want to tell him like this after all these years! - Antonio whined – It's too important.”

“If you don't say it, something could happen and you'd regret shutting up.”

“What can happen in ten hours?”

“A suicide, a car accident, a meteorite hitting earth, the case zero of a plague, a...”

“Thank you, Emma, remember me to ask you next time I don't want to feel better.”

Abel groaned in annoyance, his patience being completely gone by then, “What even was your plan? Singing him a song and he would have fell head over heels for you deeper than ever and forget all you said and his boyfriend?”

“More or less...”

“Christ that's why you are the naif one.”

“I thought I was the funny one.”

“I am the funny one!”

“No, Gilbert, you are the irritating one.”

Emma interrupted everyone, “He sent me a text...”

“What did he say?”

Emma read it quickly, got paler and murmured, “I'm sorry if I write you only now, dear, I received a couple of calls from you and Gil, I guessed Toni spoke with you and I didn't feel like speaking about it. Sadik found me when I was strolling around, isn't it nice? Don't read this to Toni, he could... oops. - he smiled at Antonio who shook his head - ...well, mh, he could get hurt. I... - her eyes widened – I figured I've been truly selfish towards all of you. But mostly Sadik. I am not sure what to do, so I think I will confront him about how Toni feels. What. - she panicked, reading quicker – Tonight he asked me to go with him to Istanbul, we're going to his apartment now. If I don't write anymore, you guess what. Have a good night, néroli.”

Gilbert's jaw was completely down. Abel's eyebrows were lifted in surprise. Antonio was completely still.

“What... what does this mean?”

“That he is going to be next to Sadik. - Abel summed up – In other worse, the cases are two: or you gave him the impression you liked Sadik, which is highly possible considering how dumb you can be, or you gave him the impression you like him but hate to 'cause you suffer too much. - he paused – In both cases, since you didn't state a clear 'I love you and want to be with you', he deduced you didn't want him.”

“But I do!”

Gilbert rose his hand, “Remember when we told you to tell him? Yeah.”

Emma frowned, “Maybe it's still not to late. He has still to speak to him. Why don't you call him now or rush to him?”

“Even with the underground, I'd most probably just interrupt them being already at it... - he sighed, holding his head between his hands – I've been an idiot.”

“Don't worry, Francis is not going to go to Istanbul, is he? I mean, that would be...”

“Foolish. Idealistic. Love-addicted-like?”, Abel suggested, deadpan.

“Good point.”

Antonio took the guitar in his hands and mumbled, “I have to sing to him...”

“Or you could be straight-forward?”

“Abel, let him be...”

But before Emma could finish, Antonio took Gilbert's car keys and rushed outside of the place, leaving the other three wondering what to think about it.

When he arrived under Sadik's place, a bunch of uncomfortable, unwelcome memories turned in his head, like a whirlpool of recent bad choices. All he couldn't stop thinking about was Francis and how he had to do something before it got too bad.

He knocked loudly, until someone opened the door, sadly not who he hoped for.

“Antonio.”

“Sadik. - he swallowed tension – Is Francis there?”

“Yes, he is taking a bath, he was quite aggravated after your spat.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Supposedly you love me. - he scoffed – I am not sure how badly you confessed but sure this sets a record.”

“I have to tell him!”

“Tell him what, that you love him? - he laughed – Do you need to make things worse?”

“He likes me too, mind it, you fucktard.”

Sadik blinked slowly, smirking, “Oh, does he? It isn't what he told me. - his grin was sharp and acute – What he told me is that he loves me so much and he can't believe he ever was angry at me for the sex, that he regrets that threesome with all of himself... and... - he added, taking pleasure in seeing Antonio crumble - … he is going to come to Istanbul with me until vacations end. Just me, him, a lot of sex and miles and miles away from you. How does that feel?”

Antonio tilted, limping a bit, his eyes watery, “Can I talk to him?”

“I don't think it's a good idea, it took me a lot of making out to make him smile again.”

“How... how did you know where he was?”

Sadik laughed, “Fine, I'll tell you, he wouldn't believe you even if you said it to him. I was out of your apartment as the spat ended, I followed him and then entered in the scene at the perfect moment. - he grinned – I win.”

Antonio felt lost.

Did he bet on the wrong horse?

Did he misunderstand Francis once again?

“Can I see him... I... I need to.”

Sadik bit his lips, feeling a weird sensation tickling his veins and his stomach.

“Sure. Wait here, I see if he finished already.”

After some minutes, the door opened again, Francis in front of him, with a towel around his hips and nothing more. Antonio lowered his face, hiding how flustered he felt.

“I'm sorry I swooped in on you. I needed to talk.”

Francis hesitate by the door, then smiled, “You look like you ran.”

“I did. - he gave a smile – Look, I have to tell you a thing. And, I beg you, let me talk because I feel like the stupid person in a stupid romcom with the stupid misunderstanding to clarify. - he chuckled – And I have to tell you, please.”

“...sure, go on.”

“I want you to just answer to me in all honesty to something before.”

Francis nodded, holding onto the door.

Antonio breathed in, nervous, giving a weak and panicking smile, “Did you ever thought of me as more than a friend?”

Francis backed off a bit, pissed, feeling vulnerable.

“Why the hell are you asking this?”

“Because I did!”

Francis fell mute. Antonio grabbed his arms, shaking him. The Frenchman just shook his head slowly, petrified, like he couldn't understand.

“Francis, I found the golden notebooks. - he smiled – I read them and...”

“What? Who told you you could?”

“I know I shouldn't have but is it important? I discovered that...”

“Yes, it is to me! - he shouted – How could you do that?”

“We just fought and you said you didn't want to see me anymore and I wanted to... enter in your mind.”

“Those were private, Toni.”

“Fran! - he tried to get back the conversation where he wanted – Why you never told me you liked me?”

“I... What do you want? - he shouted – I didn't think you were the kind of guy whose ego is so low it needs to make fun of friends over crushes they had as kids. That was a lot of time ago. I don't... don't look at me like that.”

“... you don't anymore?”

Francis bit his lips, on the verge of tears, “No. No, I don't.”

“Fran, are you..?”

“What? - he cried out – What, Antonio? You want me to step aside in the name of our friendship or an old infatuation? I even could, but Sadik doesn't like you.”

“I don't like Sadik!”

“Oh, please!”

Sadik came behind them, worried, “You're shouting, baby, is it all okay?”

Francis nodded, weakly, then headed inside, “Yes, we just finished.”

Antonio took courage, shivering in rage and anger, scared at the idea of losing Francis again, he murmured, devastated, on the verge of tears, “I love you!”

Francis turned for a moment, but he felt Sadik's hand around his shoulders. The Turk gave a mortified expression, as he was truly sorry, and whispered, with a certain wicked gleam Francis couldn't explain, “I'm sorry.” .

He closed the door behind them, leaving Antonio speechless and feeble.

He couldn't believe it.

Sadik was truly going to pretend he didn't know? That he said it to him?

Oh, no, he was not letting it happen. Never. He went around the house, searching for a window to knock on or to break in from.

When he arrived on the side, her looked through one of the windows, seeing just Sadik keeping Francis' hand and caressing his shoulders, while Francis nodded as in pretending he was fine. Around them, a couple of ready suitcases reminded Antonio of how he heard Francis complain that Sadik would have left soon.

But he couldn't afford to wait and make Francis really like Sadik more. He couldn't afford time.

… but then again he said he didn't love him anymore.

But then? Then how to explain the recent poems? How to explain how he felt during sex? How to explain how desperate, salty, needed every kiss felt?

God, he needed him. It didn't even matter anymore what Francis felt, he had to tell him.

He slammed his fist on the window but it didn't seem to have any effect and the others didn't seem to even hear it. Maybe they had a TV on or something. Antonio panicked, held onto his own heart and distinguished in himself a need he didn't feel in a long time, if not never before.

He took his mobile and wrote.

He saw Francis going to a close table and getting it.

 

From: Toni <3

I beg you, listen to me a sec

 

From: Toni <3

Don't tell him it's me please

 

Sadik must had asked but Francis gave a smile and lied. It was his lying smile, the one full of courtesy on when he was hiding something.

The smile Antonio could always recognize. As every one of Francis' smiles.

 

From: Fran

I won't... tell me everything.

 

From: Toni <3

Fran, I am sorry for reading the poetry, I'm sorry for everything, but most of all I'm sorry for not having the balls to say before what I had to.

 

From: Toni <3

I always imagined, since, you know, you being more active and all

 

From: Toni <3

I was going to say “being the man”, god, speaking to my mom makes me talk like a 60 yo republican kill me now

 

From: Toni <3

Look

 

From: Toni <3

I imagined it wouldn't have happened but that you should have said it, in case... you know ? But the truth is I was an asshole.

 

From: Toni <3

All you ever wanted was someone to love you and make you feel you were needed and wanted.

 

From: Toni <3

And I was basically protecting myself from admitting things, because I wanted you, who need this more, to be the one asking

 

From: Fran

I'm... confused?

 

From: Toni <3

I don't like Sadik.

 

He could see Francis' hands tremble. His fingers holding frailly the mobile. The Frenchman looked around a bit, but couldn't seem to see him.

Antonio was bent under the window, peeking but making sure not to be found, then breathed in and out.

He needed him.

 

From: Fran

Where are you now?

 

From: Toni <3

Fran, I need you.

 

From: Fran

Yes, me too... I'm sorry I was not the best of friends lately... I don't want to lose you.

 

From: Fran

I never wanted to.

 

From: Toni <3

Great, neither do I.

 

From: Toni <3

Because I love you.

 

He saw Francis dropping the mobile on the ground, staring into the void and then rushing out of the house.

He tried to go away, at that point, but, as he stood up, Francis turned on the corner and saw him.

It was raining harder by then, their clothes were drenched after a few seconds, Francis' hair completely wet. He was panting, shivering.

Antonio forced himself to smile.

“Hey.”

Francis jumped on him, pushing him onto the ground, wet earth, but for once Francis Bonnefoy didn't worry about clothes getting ruined. He looked dead serious, devastated and yet anxious with the most beautiful doubt.

His lips were tense as he spoke, flat, but a small corner seemed, nervously, yet hopefully, tickling to go up.

“What did you say?”

Antonio held Francis arms to keep him over himself.

He swallowed and smiled.

“In the sense of te amo and of je t'aime, I love you, Fr...”

In a second, his lips were covered, his mouth pulled. He could feel shivers and hunger in the eager kisses Francis gave him. They were both breathless with joy and fear, and he barely used his tongue, mostly connecting their lips, suffering in breaking kisses and returning onto his mouth, catching it.

Francis' hand went behind his head pushing them closer, kissing him sweetly and with the sick urge of those who waited too much.

Francis smiled in the kiss, getting deeper, digging his tongue in Antonio's mouth, caressing its walls, craving and marking them, holding him close. Antonio smiled too, moaning inside the other man's mouth.

“I love you too, I love you too...”, Francis held him, ending up as dirty as Antonio.

The Spaniard smiled, “I finally hear it.”

A spark of thought, though, crossed Francis' mind, making him freeze and then turn quickly towards the door of the house.

“I...”

Antonio's smile dropped, “You... you don't love him, do you?”

“I don't think you can love two people at the same time. - Francis admitted – But... I don't know how to tell him this. I promised to go with him tonight and now... - he put the hands in his hair – God, I am a monster. I'm horrible.”

“Fran, Fran, it's okay, just tell him the truth.”

“That I was trying to forget the man now I'm leaving him for? Great plan.”

Antonio lowered his eyes, admitting to himself it was not the best idea he ever shared.

Francis seemed to shiver a bit, as he could realize only then all the cold of the evening, his eyes trembling in sadness and sense of guilt.

“Can you... can you give me some time? - he whispered – I'll... I'll tell him after the holidays or during them.”

“What?”

“I'm going to, I promise! - Francis pleaded – I want to be with you. - he held, gently, Antonio's face in his hands – I always did, since we were kids, all I wanted was to be with you.”

“But now you need to wait?”

“I don't want to hurt him more horribly. I'll be delicate, I'll be horrible during the holiday, so he'll think it's for the better and we're not really compatible.”

Antonio mumbled a groan in protest, pouting like as a kid.

“It's a kindness I owe him, without that night maybe I would have waited other ten years before admitting what I felt...”

Antonio was reluctant to admit it was a good point and whispered, “Okay... But promise me when you return...”

“I'm going to be yours and you're going to be mine.”, Francis promised, kissing Antonio again, voraciously happy, as if sun was shining upon them.

But rarely rivers follow a straight course.


	6. Chapter 6

_Eleventh Chapter – Save the last dance for..._

* * *

 

Francis had been perfect.

Antonio almost couldn't believe how good things were going.

Francis left for Istanbul the day after they confessed, early in the morning, and found an excuse with Sadik to rush in their apartment at 5 AM and kiss Antonio awake, making out some beautiful minutes before his flight, promising again “As soon as I return” .

From there, three days passed, each with texts, goodnight calls, even a couple of mails and a vocal message “I wish I was here with you or there with you... I don't care at all about the where, I realize now. Je t'aime.” to which Antonio fell asleep every following night.

It felt too good to be true.

Francis loving him, Francis belonging to him, Francis wishing for him... it was the fairy tale he never had.

And the fourth day, he felt something was off.

He received the good morning text a bit later, but decided not to question, not to think they went to be really late because they... , he forced himself to think Francis was just tired due to walking through archaeological sites or something. He smiled and decided for sure everything was fine.

All day he didn't receive other calls or texts, but he decided Francis was simply full of things to do and he imagined maybe his mobile fell into a wheel or stopped working due to sand, heat or dinosaurs or whatever dangers Turkey had. Maybe they had giant turkeys that ate mobiles.

The silence burdened his ribcage, making him shiver and turn in bed the whole day, unable to study or play or do anything.

He tossed and turned, trying to stop his mind from building scenarios.

As the mobile rang, Antonio threw himself on it, like a lion on the prey, hoping it was...

 

From: Gilbert

BEER?

 

From: Toni

I'm sorry dude :( I'd rather stay home in case he calls

 

From: Gilbert

I don't want to shock you but you know the meaning of the term “mobile” , right? It derives from the latin for “that moves, that can be moved”

 

From: Toni

-.-

 

From: Gilbert

ok ok *I* come to you then!!!! WAIT FOR ME

 

Antonio gave a small smile and returned to check his mobile, deciding in the end that trust was the only thing he could hang on.

Francis was many things, but not a liar. Between all of his flaws, he was not unfaithful and, for sure, he already felt guilty towards Sadik for kissing Antonio and not being totally honest about his feelings, but for sure he wouldn't have forgiven himself if he ever betrayed the man he truly loved.

With that safety closed in his heart, Antonio tried to hang on during the evening without texts, not knowing what was going on at the other side of Europe.

Despite the season, the heat was sticking onto their skin, making drops of sweat roll on their bodies. They were lying on the bed, untouched, since days.

Sadik's glance kept lingering on Francis, with a pure sadness and a dense hollow weight.

They never spent a night without sex before that holiday, but since the night of the fight with Antonio, Francis refused even kisses, allowing just some on the cheek followed by tender fake smiles.

It's not what he had in mind. He was programming a bit of an honeymoon, finally without the Spaniard behind them, finally free.

But Francis looked awfully distant.

And in which heartbreaking way: smiling only when at the phone, in the sweetest of curves his lips ever gave, while being otherwise sad, a bit dull – Francis, dull !- or absent-minded as the lazy ocean before remembering the tides will call it home.

Sadik tried to get a bit more of his enthusiasm through art, music, the dense and burnt colors of sunset, but Francis seemed constantly fascinated by the horizon, the beyond.

On that bed, Sadik felt alone as he was before Francis.

They were very similar, in the bad parts, in the wrong ones.

Sadik knew little about Francis' family or childhood, but when they talked about it, the only truly happy thing about it seemed Antonio, which set Sadik's heart on fire.

Not that Francis had anything of the usual, criminal, classical horrible happening to him. But a loving mother and father is not enough to make things happy.

He saw it in Francis since the first, well, okay, the second evening together: Francis was perpetually unhappy.

He met a man obsessed with love, loving and being loved, in need to find someone that would have put everything in its place and brought an answer to every metaphor in poems, every line in songs and every foolish act in movies. He was like a little girl clinging to a dream.

And Sadik thought that was his answer.

“I miss you...”, he murmured, reaching out to caress Francis' hair.

“I'm right here.”

He turned, with a smile. And Sadik knew it was filled with affection more than love, with care more than passion.

His voice turned blue, “You're not... - he smiled sadly – Not enough.”

Francis frowned a bit, clearly trying to find words he didn't need.

“I saw the texts, Fran.”

“What?”

“You think I wouldn't have guessed something was off? - he chuckled – We passed from four hours sessions to no sex for days... nor kisses, for the matter.”

“I'm... - he stood, sitting on the bed, and Sadik imitated him, the Frenchman gulped, put his hair behind the ear and chocked on his words – I'm so sorry, Sad, I know I'm awful.”

“You kinda are.”

Francis sucked his bottom lip, keeping the eyes down on his abdomen. His arms were trembling, he tried to avoid crying.

“I love you, Fran... but you don't need to love back everyone who does, you know?”

“I don...”

“You don't want me to feel like your dad?”

Francis swallowed, staring stubbornly at the sheets. Sadik caressed his hair, letting the curls lay on his fingertips.

Francis seemed suddenly so much younger and Sadik could feel him being fragile under the touch of his words.

“Let's make a deal: I will let you go but before I want you to really explain to me what goes in your head and heart.”

“But, Sadi-”

“I think I deserve at least this.”

And on that Francis agreed. He nodded, resting his back on the headboard. Sadik put his head on Francis' shoulders, staring at his jaw and neck.

The Frenchman gulped again and trembled a bit before starting to speak.

He remembered that summer, that summer of his ten years old, for the part he never really spoke about, if not briefly, if not in bites and shattered fragments. Describing it to Sadik was hard, because he had to but he didn't feel close enough to properly and he felt his heart trying to build back the walls he was trying to put on.

His mother and his father were divorcing and this much everybody knew.

He was a child and his parents seemed to be sure this meant he wouldn't have noticed anything, as if this could take away his sight or his hearing and make him unable to witness the continuous fights. It had always been like that before, though.

And nobody really got hurt.

Until that last week of school.

Francis was returning home slowly, together with a small child, three years younger than him, that he sort of befriended with time. The kid was shy, grumpy and Francis found it funny and a bit sweet. He thought maybe he could have make him relax and feel better.

The child was the son of the English ambassador in Paris and, despite always describing it as an honor and a cool trait, the small Brit seemed mostly bitter about the country and missing heavily his own city, his own language and, possibly, friends. Francis decided that helping the kid was a good thing and would have make him way happier and, maybe, in some way, he thought that would have also taught him how to help his parents.

Arthur, that was his name, at first was really mean, minding his own business and replying badly at Francis on a daily base; but, like the fox with the prince, at a certain point they grew used to each other and Arthur started following Francis to school, searching for him – without admitting it obviously – during the lunch break and he learnt to speak French better, because Francis' English was plain awful.

That day, Francis told his parents he would have come home before, taking a friend, and that usually meant his mom would have cooked a nice cake, fill the apartment with nice perfume, and smile kindly. It usually meant no fights.

He loved it.

But when they entered, he saw dishes crashing on the ground – his father throwing his wedding ring out of the window and his mother slapping him, yelling he was unworthy and pathetic.

“You are just unable to love anyone!”, he shouted, slamming her against the wall.

Unable to love anyone.

That what his mother was?

But for years she kept caressing his head, before night, and telling him love was everything and wedding is like a fairy-tale. She kept promising him that true love exists and everyone finds it.

That she did. That dad was that.

...was he not?

What was the truth of that all?

Was it true love or was just his mom needing a fairy-tale? Or, then again, was love just dead?

“How dare you!”

“You can't love anyone, you'll never be loved. You're just a love-addicted whore.”

Arthur clung on Francis' arm, trying to catch a glimpse of his expression. He felt horrified as he saw his face blank, like on the brink of losing any humanity.

His mother was the first to see them, taking the hands on her mouth and then rushing to them, petting Francis' hair insistently, putting a bit too much pressure. Panic rushed through her watery eyes and pulsing veins.

His father stayed motionless and mute by the side.

“Ah... how much did you hear you too? Was it scary? Ahah, mommy and daddy were just upset but they are fine now.”

And then happened something that frozen her in horror.

Francis smiled as if nothing happened, “We just came in. - his blue eyes were stained with a soothing plastic joy – What were you discussing about?”

Why was he pretending up to that point? Why was he denying the obvious?

The day after his mother started to discuss about sending the kid to her father, “the Uncle”, who lived on the Pyrenees and was surely in need of company, being a bit old by then and all alone, which, as she stated a bit bitterly, he was not used to.

Francis drank his milk with honey that morning thinking it tasted like all he lost.

The sweet last ditch of his mother seemed to him just pathetic and as she was trying to sweep dust under the rug instead of taking care of it.

He just wanted to know what was the truth.

Did she love daddy? Was she unable to love? Who was right?

Who was he supposed to be angry at?

He loved his mother a bit more, but he felt something his dad said stung also between his ribs.

He felt as he was speaking to him too, somehow, because, just like his mom, he always dreamt of love.

Always.

A true love.

A love so strong and vivid it would have gave sense to the world, like in the books.

Magdalene ruffled the sweet curls of her son, “You're going to have a lot of fun, I promise.”

“So you're going to taste the country. - his father mumbled – The city spoils you rotten, it's only easy and quick.”

Magdalene rolled her eyes to the ceiling but, as she noticed Francis was seeing her doing it, she stopped and smiled immediately.

“True.”

“I'd rather go somewhere with some art to look at...”

“But art won't run away!”

“... well, technically it would decay.”, he pointed out.

His father laughed at the bewildered expression of his wife, as she frowned a bit then replied back, “Mommy and daddy think you'd need some of it, ok? You can bring all the books you want.”

“But I will feel lonely... - he mewed – And I think also Arthur will.”

Magdalene gave a gentle huff, kissed his child's forehead and mumbled, “You'll play with him when you return and I promise if you feel bad we will come to get you back.”

Francis sighed and nodded, accepting.

He didn't want to go.

He had the very clear sensation that, as soon as he would have gone,he wouldn't have found his parents together.

As he returned from that summer, the apartment was different. He couldn't tell so much changed when his father came to take him, because he looked as stressed as always, just a bit more nervous, and he thought things simply went bad; but, as he stepped in, he couldn't avoid to see how many things disappeared, from the turquoise vase he always liked to all the plants his father took care of, so did some paintings, the print of that statue Francis never asked the name of but always liked, the photos of his other grandparents... some of the books disappeared too, leaving a sadly half-empty bookshelves theater.

“I brought him back!”, he half-yelled, barely crossing the door.

Francis turned, half-crying.

His mother arrived behind him, her arms crossed on the chest and a cigarette between her fingers.

“Thank you for doing something for once.”

He scoffed, “You really can't give up any of your bad habits, can you?”

She smirked, “Well, finally, I can smoke freely in my own house.”

Francis turned again, looking at both of them, lost.

“I guess you will be able to do all the other regrettable stuff here too, now.”

“Like wearing heels because someone doesn't feel the length of his penis belittled by a woman being taller than him?”

“Why don't you eat on that cigarette? Maybe it will give a sweet flavor to that mouth of yours. Must be so sour.”

“You'll probably regret this mouth in a couple of days.”, she gave a chuckle to hide her sadness.

He slammed his thin fist on the doorstep. A weird sound cracked and the wood bent.

Francis felt incredibly small.

His dad shook his hand, biting his inner cheek to avoid letting out a pained moan. His mother held her hands tighter on her to avoid helping.

What was that?

That was not his house.

Not his parents.

They were fighting often, breaking glasses, throwing stuff, yelling, but they never were so cold. They never found solace in the hurting the other...

Francis started to sob without tears, sighing a bit. He opened and closed his hands searching for Antonio's.

But he felt just the void.

He started to cry, like the child he didn't know he still was: eyes closed, head towards the ceiling and the mouth wide open. He cried loudly and desperately.

Magdalene came closer to him and so did his father, bending over him, petting his curls, trying to calm him down speaking sweetly.

“Fran, what happened?”

“It's all your fault! Did you have to punch the door? You scared him!”

“For fucks sake, Madeleine!”

“Don't call me like that, I told you one hundred times.”

“Is this really the moment?”

“When you do a mistake is never the moment to point it out!”, she shouted.

“He is crying. - he yelled – Can't you be a decent mother for one second?”

“Excuse me, I am not the parent who is never home between the two of us.”

“Not that this wasn't useful to you, mh?”

“Antoine!”

Francis clenched his small fists, crying louder and then crouched on the ground, feeling unable to stand between those screams any longer. It all broke, it all went to hell.

Nothing remained of the love his mother promised was forever.

Nothing.

Was he like his mother? Was he going to hurt someone and see them slam the door and not help them?

His father then hugged Francis, keeping him hidden in his chest. The strong sandalwood seemed to soothe him a bit, while he still trembled, trying to catch it and keep it in his memory.

He held onto his father's jacket with his small hands, feeling the soft pullover and needing that touch more than ever.

“Don't go...”

“Hey, hey. - he poked on his nose – What did we say about boys crying?”

“Mom said it's a toxic mentality...”

Antoine turned towards his ex-wife, squinting his eyes and furrowing his eyebrows, she puffed, embarrassed yet proud.

“... mom and I will both always be in your life, clear? I'm going to live somewhere really nice, you know? I found an apartment neat Saint-Lazare and you can come by metro whenever you want, okay?”

Francis nodded weakly, but he kept holding onto the pullover, unable to let go.

“I promise I'll be always here for you.”

Francis felt a bitter, sharp sting into his chest, but tried to ignore it.

“So you won't forget me?”

“Why should I?”

...because I am born from a love that doesn't exist anymore, he thought, so I am a child of void.

He caught back a tear, chocking a bit on the need to cry again, “I don't know, you always forget the keys.”, he replied, trying to make his voice sound smaller and more childish.

His father smiled, his mother seemed satisfied with it and Francis faked a tiny smile.

As his father stood up and walked to the door, though, Magdalene reached him, still keeping her arms strictly crossed, but with a new, worried, trembling, shy look on her face.

“Antoine...”  
He turned, trying but failing to smile, “Yes?”

“...please, check that hand.”

“It's going to be fine.”

“Will you just-”

“Yes. - his glance fell on Francis, who put himself together and looked around, lost in his own house – Yes, I will...”

Francis' shoulder tightened a bit, while he gave a little smile, “Can we... just for tonight...”

“What, baby?”, Magdalene asked.

“For a night... can we dine together? And... - he sighed, swallowing a hoarse sob – Just tonight. I have presents, you know... “

Antoine shared a low, indecisive look with his ex-wife, who just seemed to shiver, unsure, full of doubts, feeling thin as paper, weak under the rain.

“Sure we can! - Antoine claimed, hands on his hips, proudly – Were you thinking to hide my presents, mh?” 

* * *

 

_Twelfth Chapter – Burning soul, auburn morning_

* * *

 

“When... - Francis stared to speak, his voice hoarse - … when I start something, I always wonder 'is it going to be the one? Is it going to be this time?' and I know it's stupid... - he chuckled – You might not think so but everyone told me already. - his voice turned lower – I always want it to work. I don't... do things for fun.”

Sadik listened, blinking slowly. Francis' eyes kept staring at the nothing in front if them

“When people hear how many relationships I had, they imagine I am some kind of womanizer with a need to fuck everything. A nympho or something. - he laughs but his lungs crack like glass – I... I know you thought the same the first night.”

Sadik swallowed, not able to deny.

A sigh, “You know how many man my mom dated?”

“Twenty?”

“Sixty eight.”

“What?”

“The ones I counted...”

Sadik was about to let out a comment, but then he saw the blue in his boyfriend's eyes getting scorching and alight.

“Luc, Alexis, Amaury, David, Fabien, Denis, Maxime, Mathias, Bruno, Egide... Egide was my favourite, he looked like Helmut Berger... - he mumbled, before returning to count, half-absent, like if it was a memorized lullaby - … Briac, André, another Fabien, Marc, Xavier, Yannis, Simon, Marcel, Hector, then Serge and...”

“Wait, wait! - Sadik scoffed – Are you trying to tell me you remember all of their names?”

Francis raised an eyebrow, “Naturally.”

“Why?”

“Cause she does.”

Sadik frowned, “But they were...”

“Too many? - he smirked – She is still alone. She can't stick to someone she doesn't love.”

“She was a terrible example, wasn't she?”

Francis smiled, “Quite the opposite. - he laughed, sour – Sure, seeing a new lover every two months was not easy and sometimes I just wished she could stop searching but... I am like her. I want love and nothing less. I won't settle down for lesser than the true thing.”

“So what you mean is: the practice was terrible but the principle was right?”

“Yes. - he seemed to become sad – I didn't start going out with you, after that night, because I wanted to have fun.”

“Then why?”

Sadik's eyes looked dull, grayer. His mouth were closed in a sad expression. He kept his hands together on his lap, but he kept resting his head on Francis' shoulder.

“You were the sweetest person I ever was with.”

His eyes widened and he turned.

Francis was staring at him, smiling, so gently. His curls fell nicely on the shoulders. He smiled a bit more, showing the nice teeth and giggled with tears in the corners of his eyes.

Sadik kissed the tears away, brushing him a bit with his beard.

Francis smiled, brushing him back on the cheek with the chin.

He caressed Sadik's cheek, delicately, lovingly.

“Maybe you don't even remember, but during our first night, in that club, while there was a terrible, terrible, dance song, while we were already hard, while everything called for a stupid one-night-stand to regret the day after, you kissed me in the sweetest way. - he ruffled his hair, sadly – You were soft, tender... I was the usual, horrible flirt, while you were extremely nice with me.”

“I remember... - he smiled, hiding a bit – You were very attentive too, you spent so much time to make sure it felt great.”

“I have a reputation to hold up to.”

Sadik laughed, holding onto him, “It was the first time I truly liked being completely under someone else's control.”

Francis smiled, scratching behind his nape.

“You deserved better.”

“Maybe... - he sighed – Maybe we'll get another chance one day.”

“Maybe. - he kissed Sadik's forehead – In that case, I promise I will be honest about how I feel.”

“Do you think you'll be with Antonio, now?”

“I don't know... - he admitted, sighing – I like him, but I feel like there is too much between us...”

“What do you mean?”

“He is also my friend... a brother, he is part of my past. I will always return to him, even if it didn't work.”

“Like the red string of fate?”

“This is giving to it a positive connotation.”

“I didn't think you were a pessimist, Fran.”, he chuckled.

He furrowed his eyebrows, “Even I can be subdued and low-spirited.”

“That's a shame.”

“Sad...”

“Yes?”

“Can we still be friends? - he asked, caressing his hair – I truly like who you are as a person, I don't want to say goodbye.”

Sadik grinned and kissed Francis' cheek, “I'll think about this one.”

An high-pitched sound distracted them. Francis grabbed his mobile, nervously. That day he barely communicated with Antonio in the end, he was not nice, but he had to remember things, rethink stuff, speak well with Sadik about everything...

He was going to write him a nice text right after he read what was up.

As he saw the number, he stiffed a bit : Antonio's mother. She? Calling him? That was weird and not a good sign.

“Hello? … Ah, Gabriela, yes, I'm.. glad to hear you too... yes, I'm in Istanbul right now so maybe you're spend- okay, sure... - he frowned – I... I will talk to him about it, yes. Yes, I'm sure he... - his voice sank in his throat – I'll make him consider it.”

Sadik blinked, curious.

He could see Francis sucking his lips, while nodding, “Yes, I... I will as soon as I come back. Thank you for telling me...”

As Francis closed the call, Sadik came closer, “What happened?”

“Gabriela wants... Antonio's mother wants him to return to Madrid...”

Sadik forced himself to seem sorry, “How come?”

“She didn't... tell me.”

He felt empty all of a sudden, as if the news dig a black hole into his stomach and everything – his blood, his heart, his soul – fell into it without a blink, without leaving a trace.

Antonio was going away from his hands? Right then, when they finally told each others their feelings?

Honestly, Gabriela never had worse timing.

Sadik put a hand on Francis' jaw , turned it and put a small kiss next to corners of the mouth, silently, without any comments. He opened his eyes slowly, leaving them still in a half-lidded eager glance.

Francis gulped, shaking his head, sending away any possible thought.

Sadik grinned, seeing he probably would have had another chance, maybe in a while. Obviously, that was it, if Antonio went away from the scenes; but, for sure, Francis didn't have to know he wanted it to happen so badly to sabotage a possible happy relationship between the two.

“I'll help you to make him stay.”

“Really?”

“Will he need a job, right?”

“I think my mother could cover his costs at my house, but he'll have to pay for the university... I am not sure what he is going to do. - he sighed – And no, Sadik, I... I really can't ask you that much. You are too kind.”

Sadik smiled, sweetly, “Don't be silly, we're friends, aren't we?”

Francis seemed to become illuminated. His eyes sparkled and his smile opened in joy.

He held Sadik in a tight, warm hug, “Thank you.”

“For now, let's try to enjoy these last days here. - he smiled – Call Toni, I'll shower and then you'll get me coffee.”

Francis nodded, surprised. Considering how possessive Sadik told him to be, the thing went kind of too easy.

But he didn't want to doubt Sadik's friendship. Probably he was just pretending not to be hurt so it would have been less hurtful for both. He was such a kind person, Francis thought.

He took the mobile and clicked on Antonio's number, hoping to find him free. After just a couple of rings, he heard a voice.

“Whoa, finally, Messiah!”

“...Gilbert?”

“Yeah who else? - he snickered – Okay, lemme guess, you want the disaster. - Gilbert seemed to speak to someone else – Loser, stop puking your guts out, there is your boyfriend at the phone! - then returned to him – You're boyfriends now, right?”

“N-not yet... - Francis mumbled – Can I just speak with him?”

“Well, obviously not yet, I mean, that would be too logical.”

“Aha-ah, I forgot how to laugh. Gil, pass me Toni.”

“Okay okay, why do you two always act like jokes make your balls shrink? Here! - after a bit of noises, a low moan of distress and curse words the voice changed into Antonio's – Hey...”

“Hey. - Francis smiled – How are you?”

“If I had a soul, I puked it out by now.”

“Did he give you vodka?”

“How do you know?”

“You don't handle that at all. - he mumbled – Try to get something sweet in your mouth, like vanilla ice cream, so the puking should burn less.”

“Like, I'd suffer anyway but less shitty?”

“That's the plan. - he laughed – I miss you.”

“Did you kiss?”, Antonio asked with a pout.

Francis took a moment, wondering if telling him about the cheek ones or not.

“No, obviously. - he just said, trying to laugh it away – I … I couldn't, and you know.”

“I sorta know but not really.”

“How is it possible?”

“It's harder when it's about yourself. - his voice trembled a bit, wet and weak with alcohol – I miss you too...”

“I love you, Toni...”

He heard the Spaniard choke and cough, confused, maybe took by surprise.

“... me too.”

“There is something wrong?”

“No, it's just it's weird...”

“What?”

“Well. - Antonio laughed – To say 'I love you' before having even dated.”

Francis felt a familiar pain piercing his chest. He remembered suddenly his father's scent.

 

Your words

sank

deeper

than I should have

allowed them.

My wood rots,

my chains

rust,

you push me

inside darkness.

 

So to Antonio was laughable? When he said he loved him what did he meant? Like? Nothing big? Did he say Love just to explain it was not simply being friends?

He felt betrayed, angry. He felt lonely.

He confessed to someone who didn't feel the same but pretended to... he felt so stupid, Christ.

“I have to go now.”

“What? Already?”, Antonio's voice got sad but Francis didn't seem to care.

He frowned, wondering if he said something wrong. But no, it couldn't be. After all, he was so happy... sure, it was weird having been in love for so much and so long and so deeply and still never dated. Without even needing to have been lovers, they felt love. Antonio thought there was nothing better and, most surely, being Francis an hopeless romantic, he found those words nice.

Maybe there was just Sadik behind him waiting and so he couldn't really speak.

Francis put down the mobile and threw it on the bed in a fit of rage.

He was so angry he could feel the need to punch something, fighting back tears. But he wouldn't have cried, didn't matter how hurt he felt.

If Antonio needed more time, he would have given him plenty.

He just felt... ah, he was so happy, wasn't he? He hoped too much, he looked to high.

Fly high, Icarus, burn your pretty feathers with the sun.

The wax will melt and draw tears on your back.

He sat on the bed, pulling his hair back, uncovering his forehead, like he needed a clean view to breath. He tried to inhale slowly, letting his lungs get filled.

The rain started to crash against the window of the hotel room.

Sadik came out of the bathroom, a towel on his hips and one on his head, which Francis found funny because he had longer hair but never did it. He wondered if sometimes Sadik had it very long.

“Umh, I was thinking...”

“Yes?”, Francis forced himself to smile.

He didn't want to burden Sadik with his problems with Antonio. He felt that would have been just too much.

“Why don't we go to my family...?”

“What?”

“As friends. I, in fact... I didn't come out yet. But I'd like you to meet them and they'd offer us some coffee and treats.”

“I'd feel like an intruder...”, Francis admitted.

Sadik looked up, proud, “C'mon, I promise they are nice. My younger siblings will love you. The girls might want to braid your hair, though...”

Francis felt a tender warmth growing inside. He didn't know Sadik had such a family-oriented face.

“Then you will have to tell me what to wear.”

“Something that brings out your eyes. - he mumbled – Maybe gold or pink.”

Francis stared a second, “Are you sure they don't know you're gay?”

Sadik faked to pout, crossing his arms, “Butthole.”

“I'm not the one who likes it there...”, Francis chuckled, winking.

Sadik gave a scandalized expression and threw himself on Francis, starting to tickle him under the armpits and on the hips, making the Frenchman laugh on the point of tears.

Francis smiled between crying, trying to catch his breath but getting tickled more and more mercilessly, until he turn on the side, trying to hide his abdomen from the enemy.

Sadik rubbed a bit, slowly, yet distractedly enough for it not to be certainly intended, Francis' crotch. The Frenchman shook a bit, trying to compose himself again.

“I should go to take a bath...”

“Yeah, mh . - Sadik faked a certain shy realization, as he stepped back – I will call them to say we're going to come. Take your time.”

Francis entered in the bathroom with a certain haste, hoping to take away that burdening sense of doom from his shoulders. He missed Antonio. He missed him.

He would have just liked things to go the normal way...

He turned on the hot water and started to pour bubble bath in. He caressed the surface of water, letting the fingertips dance into it, while thinking about it all: Antonio, his mother, his own parents, Sadik, Istanbul, sex, Antonio again... he wondered how he was supposed to react. He was not good at waiting patiently without getting a clear answer.

He entered in the bathtub, enjoying the warmed scent of lavender and honey. He rested his back on the porcelain side, trying to relax his own muscles, but it didn't work. He didn't even feel like taking care of himself as usual – he was just bothered, annoyed, and yet still bewitched.

He didn't like what Antonio said but also couldn't say he was wrong. Still, he was in love and didn't doubt the use of those words.

Aaah, why were humans so hard? He should have just be a monk.

The idea, though, made him shiver and pouring cold water on his hair to wash them didn't help. While massaging them, eyes closed to avoid the foam to go in, he couldn't stop wondering what Antonio was doing.

Ah, it would have been so nice to take a bath together... he would have tease Antonio's crotch with his feet, making him tremble and whimper and yet forcing him to stay still in the small porcelain bathtub.

Antonio's voice would have echoed round and full with the small room, little moans crawling on the walls.

He could have go slightly underwater and suck him, it sounded somewhat funny... and Antonio would have tried to find something to hold onto before shooting in his mouth.

He sighed, washing away the shampoo from his hair, a low groan in noticing he did get aroused. After all, five days was a somewhat a personal record.

He started to caress his staff, biting his lips to stay silent. He could feel his back tense again, his toes arch, his hips struggling not to move. The water was not as comfy as it seemed before.

The thoughts of Antonio couldn't leave his head: the desperate faces he made when they had sex, the crave, the need, the moans, the way he need him inside more than anything.

His deep green eyes shining with lust.

His voice bending in half-pained bliss.

His soft butt welcoming his throbbing erection.

He imagined doing it again, holding his hips against his crotch, thrusting into him, being as deep as it was humanly possible. Thrusting on the brink of breaking him, leaving Antonio lost in moans, squirm and writhe under his touch.

He would have asked for more and more, almost begged, his mouth drenched in desire, close to ecstasy. And Francis couldn't wait for it: for slamming into Antonio's sweet spot, making him arch and cry in a glorious needy moan.

Francis bit his lips to blood, suffocating a grunt, coming in his own hand and washing it quickly.

He fell silent for some minutes, wondering if he let out any noises that Sadik could have heard... he rested his head on the side of the bathtub, taking some time before the conditioner, while mumbling to himself the words to an old song.

He needed Toni's love more than he knew.

* * *

 

 

_NOTES:_

_I'm sorry I kept you waiting on this one. I had a week of pretty bad days, so I managed to write these chapters only tonight XD but that was a nice long night!_

_I just wanted to thank again those who comment, my sweeter half (who yells at me to update, so consider her my personal alarm clock) and my friend Lilith. Lilith K Beilschmidt is one of the best writers on this site and in the world, the smartest person I know and I wanted to tell her it's an honor knowing her since by now 3 years ._

 


	7. Chapter 7

_Thirteenth Chapter – Sun, Rain, Summer wind_

* * *

 

Sadik's family was colourful.

Francis could only think about that, sitting at a table where people barely cared to translate from Turkish to English, not to add, his English was quite awful; but they looked so funny, so happy to be together. Sadik's younger siblings were so many and so much younger, he looked quite like a youth mistake in the middle of that elementary school spectrum, but they kept jumping happily around him, kissing his cheeks and asking for attention. Sadik kept translating all he could, but soon got surrounded by the kid's playful hands and gave up.

Francis spent the evening chuckling at him, looking at him with a sweet affection and a certain envy.

It was so nice watching them play together that Francis almost thought about how it must have felt to have younger brothers, children, to play with, to see growing up.

A kid turned towards Francis and mumbled something the Frenchman couldn't have understood not even if he tried.

Sadik laughed, “Braids. Told you.”

Sadik sat next to Francis, took the six years old in hi lap, so she could arrive at Francis' curls, and smiled when the blonde gave a shy smile to the kid in a sort of “please don't try to talk to me but understand I'm friendly” expression that made him look like a lost puppy.

“She might be a bit indelicate, she is a kid.”

“It's okay... I'm not that sen- - he suffocated a pained groan - ..sitive on the scalp.”

Sadik chuckled, “You look like a dad right now.”

Francis didn't know how to react to such an intimate comment. Was it even something to say right after a break-up? Was it Sadik's way to say he was cool with him?

If so it was, he figured a smile and acting happy would have been the fast reply. Maybe if he also acted like anything was in its place and without pain, maybe the pain they both felt would have been washed away by a smile.

Francis was sure a smile, no matter how sad one is, is always the first step to stand up again.

And he really was sure love always found its way into people, before hate and beyond any sadness.

So, he figured, probably Sadik was trying his best.

“So, - he smiled, tenderly – Tell me again the name of this princess.”

Their hours flowed slowly, like the wind of the evening that peeks into the deep nights, introducing the moon and the stars, falling like a low tide through the bones and awakening peace.

They laughed, enjoyed their time, joked and Francis felt his heart light, finally the burden of what he did was leaving his shoulders. He started again to walk tall, his face up high.

He forgot even his worries about Antonio: it didn't matter what he meant, after all. He loved Antonio, he always did, with urgency, intensity and fragility.

He loved him when they were teenagers scared of their failures and limits and inebriated by having so many possibilities in their hands.

He would have loved him then and then after, as old men, tired and satisfied.

Always was a word he always loved and he was never afraid of.

Francis looked up above, at the full, pearly moon, illuminating the dark velvety sky. He couldn't help but think about Antonio, about how sweet and beautiful he was. Surely, he was waiting for him, probably a bit worried.

He grabbed the mobile, smiling.

 

From: Fran

Toni <3 I miss you and love you. I know it sounds precocious to you, I get it, I am the clingy, romantic one, after all :P … but I do, I love you...

 

He sent it and waited a bit. He frowned: the message left his mobile but didn't seem to be received by Antonio's mobile. He looked at the clock: it was beyond midnight.

“Are you already sleeping?”, he mumbled, saddened.

Sadik showed a little smile, “It's pretty late, you know?”

“I know... I just thought...”

“That maybe he couldn't have slept without you?”, his pitch sounded sharp, mocking. Francis felt hurt by it but didn't dare to protest, after all he did hurt Sadik too.

He decided to nod a bit, absent-minded, as if he didn't truly care. His eyes fell on the side, while he kept thinking about why the message didn't arrive.

Even when sleeping, it was not like Antonio to turn off the mobile.

Maybe he went out and it stopped working? But with who?

Abel was mostly Francis' friend and, while he was not distant from Antonio, he wouldn't have gone out their two alone.

Maybe Emma? They were pretty close, lately, as if they shared some secret he was not admitted to.

Maybe Gilbert? He frowned, a bit annoyed at the thought – he and the German spoke very little and he didn't know for sure whether he was gay or straight.

He shook his head: he had to trust Antonio.

They were at the start, he would have never cheated on him and especially not then.

 

From: Fran

I saw your mobile doesn't work so consider this your good morning message <3 Je t'aime.

 

While he was typing, he felt Sadik's dark eyes on him.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Uh, sure. - Francis smiled – You can ask anything.”

“What does he have, that I don't?”

At first, Francis thought that was a joke or a sarcastic, aggressive question. He thought there was behind grunge or wrath, but Sadik's look was simple and honest as water.

Francis swallowed, “It's not a matter of this. One falls in love with a person, not with extra qualities or lack of flaws.”

“Sure.”

Sadik's mouth bowed in a grin and Francis was, once again, not sure how to react, since Sadik didn't seem angry and yet he could feel a slight aura, like the smoke of a fire he couldn't find filling his air with gray, hot sparks.

Francis tried his best to use a kind tone, to seem vulnerable and sorry, “Yes, it is... You're a great guy, I just...”

“Oh, Fran, don't give me the it's not you, it's me treatment. - he smiled, but Francis could by then feel a thick anger – I was just asking honestly, I think I could have an answer.”

“But this is my answer! - Francis burst, staring in Sadik's eyes – I fell in love with Toni not because he is better, he is just different. Me liking somebody else has nothing to do with you as a person.”

“I know that, I just didn't want fake answers.”

The Turk's chuckle was sour and dark.

Francis felt again the guilt crashing on his shoulders. Maybe he shouldn't have broke up with Sadik so early, maybe he would have to do something worse. He was not sure.

“Sad, Toni and I have a deep bond of years, it's not so easy to explain...”

Sadik growled, clenching the word sin his mouth.

“Am I supposed to think what? That you didn't pick best? That he was not better in any way but you still didn't want me?”

“Sadik, why so suddenly? Everything seemed fine...”

“Why did you have to write him?”, he shouted.

Francis almost fell back on a wall, then collected the patience to keep replying nicely, “I didn't know it bothered you... I missed him.”

“Why?”

“Because yes.”

“What's so much to love in him?”

Sadik was getting angrier and Francis' sense of guilt by then attacked his stomach, contracting him in a burning cramp.

He tried to put an hand on Sadik's shoulders, but the other man slammed it away and turned in the street. The hotel room was close, so Francis decided to wait until there, even if he was starting to not be sure anymore if he shouldn't have been a bit annoyed by Sadik's words.

“Look... - he whispered, on the elevator – I really did like you, I didn't chose the best. I didn't chose at all. - he smiled a bit, hoping it to be contagious to Sadik – Love doesn't allow us to chose.”

“Then let me ask a thing: if you could have chosen, who would you have pick?”

“What?”

“Imagine you had a choice, that you liked us the same. - he crossed his arms, defensive – Who would have you picked?”

Francis pulled back his hair from the forehead, “I... I don't get why are we speaking about this. Let's just go to bed, it was a nice evening...”

“Don't bullshit me and speak!”, Sadik shouted, grabbing Francis' arm.

The Frenchman lost his patience and glared at Sadik, making him drop immediately his clench.

“I would still chose him...- he murmured, trying his best to show his kindest eyes – You are sweet, but he is Toni and I can't tell you he is smarter or funnier or prettier. It's not about that... it was never about that, not for a second. - his voice was soft as wax – He is not funny or smart or pretty to me, he is Toni. Just Toni, for how ridiculous it may sound.”

Sadik simply opened the door of the room, without commenting more, but Francis didn't want to stop the conversation, not yet.

“Please, I know I was not nice, but, please, don't think you're not a good person just because I didn't love you...”

“Please, don't make me reply.”, he scoffed.

Francis clenched his fists and went to the bathroom to change privately.

He promised himself to be patient with Sadik, but his sudden need to distrust him was not provoking the best of his moods.

He checked the phone, again, quickly, desperately in need to … no, Antonio didn't turn it on again.

He felt stupid, and lonely.

Sitting on the bathtub, he remembered their first summer together, the travel with his father, the sense of loss and how big the world seemed all of a sudden, unraveling under his scared eyes.

That kid, that angry diffident kid, with the eyes like emeralds on fire, yelled at him to go away, to leave him alone.

But Francis knew they were feeling the same.

He could smell in him the same fear, the same frustration.

And Antonio had always been there, as a twin star, curling up next to him under a wide, immense sky. Antonio felt like home, like dropped barriers and destroyed walls.

He didn't want to lose that.

He didn't want to forget or have to give it up.

Antonio always had on him the effect of the fresh spring sun on flowers.

And, even when sun burns you, you know without him you could never be.

How to explain that to Sadik? How to tell him that Antonio was not the smartest, the funniest, the prettiest, but truly it was the mix that made the deal?

How to explain his own sense of humor modeled laughing with Toni and that it was with Toni's imagination that his mind got wings or that it was him the first he found beautiful and from there every beauty was just searching for Toni?

How do you explain to someone you always had tanned boyfriends because the skin you loved the most was the color of melted caramel and any other skin was just skin and covering flesh and bones?

How does one find the courage to point on why you love someone and not somebody else?

Love was not a mathematical count, love was no pros and cons.

And, even him, with his fear of solitude, with his hate for being without passion and affection in his life, knew love is more both of lust and tenderness and it was bigger than him and his calculations.

He changed to his black pajama, which he was still not really used to wear in such a hot weather, refreshed the face and went back to the room. Sadik was sitting on the bed, his arms crossed and his legs stretched out.

“Mh, I finished in the bathroom...”

“I'm sorry, I was unreasonable.”

“You're hurt, it's okay.”

“Is it?”

Francis sat next to him, hand on Sadik's leg, releasing in relief a heartfelt smile, “Of course.”, he smiled with his eyes look,as he felt the dialogue was open, possible.

He felt he didn't hurt too deep or cut too far.

He was not his mother, maybe.

“Up to which point?”, Sadik asked.

His eyes were stained in a glassy sadness. He looked about to break.

Francis' smile crumbled slightly, but he forced himself to share it again to, once more, hope.

“You don't have to worry... - he caressed Sadik's knee, brotherly – Try to do what you need to feel better.”

It was in an instant, like birds cross the sky quickly, leaving behind shaken air, and Francis almost didn't see it until it happened. Sadik's lips caught his own, pulling, trying to suck them and tasting their thick fullness.

Francis backed away in a second, panting, “No.”

“You said what I needed!”

“I thought you needed to yell at me, not to kiss me!”, he stood up, touching his mouth nervously.

“But I need you. - Sadik almost roared – You don't get it? Or is it just you don't want to? Do you really think it's going to last with that guy?”

Francis shook his head, as to shrug away thoughts crowding in his mind.

“It's better if I leave...”, he murmured, swallowing the words as beacons.

Sadik's nose twitched in disgust, anger. Sparks of loss throbbing in his knuckles.

“You don't deserve it.”

Francis didn't reply.

He knew.

He always knew, that was probably why he wanted love so much: because it's the only thing that doesn't go only to those who deserve it.

“Not as much as you.”

Sadik clenched his fist, taking it sarcastically, but Francis was deeply serious.

He collected his stuff and went out, without adding a word, calling a taxi for the airport.

 

From: Fran

I'm returning earlier, if I can find a flight tomorrow morning... I miss you. Call me when you can, okay?

 

Gilbert laughed, emptying another can of beer.

“Damn, this is sick. - he snorted – And you let him go?”

“I didn't know how to say no! - Antonio shouted, tipsy, his voice too high and loud – He doesn't want to be the bad guy and I didn't know how to say I didn't give a shit if Sadik was hurt... so... but he is not going to do anything.”

Gilbert remained silent a bit.

The lack of words was heavy.

Antonio felt in his head echoing the clack of the time passing on the clock, the distant sound of glass shattering in the trash truck, the distant sound of dance music to which some kids were dancing right outside their cars in the parking lot.

He could feel into his guts every word Gilbert didn't dare.

“He is not.”

“I am sure so.”, Gilbert tried to smile, awkwardly.

Antonio swallowed, trying to look somewhere else, distancing himself from Gilbert's eyes and how sorry they looked.

He couldn't understand himself, after all.

He loved Francis and Francis said he loved him, yet he couldn't calm down. He was sure something would have gone wrong.

Francis was, he always had been, a romantic type. A love-addicted.

A nice atmosphere, some pretty words, a meaningful connection would have done the trick with him. Maybe.

“He said he loves me.”

“He does. - Gilbert granted – It's easy to see...”

Antonio shut up, sucking his mouth, remembering that evening when he had to share Francis with Sadik, to see – and, god, he hated he enjoyed – him fucking another person and then him, without a flinch.

And when they made love to him was different but what about Francis? Did he felt that too?

He caressed one of the golden notebooks, which he started to read fully, merciless of Francis' request not to, and in which he found a certain comfort.

Francis and he loved each other for a long time, apparently, but this never stopped him from having other people, other relationships. They were not together, but wasn't that a form of infidelity?

A subtle betrayal without rules.

He never had anyone else he liked: never a lover, never a relationship. He had some kisses, stolen in the garden after class, exchanged with the urge of a teenager, maybe, why not, he could have had more.

He could have liked someone except Francis, right?

Could he even fall in love? Or was his heart so connected to Francis the sole idea would have make it break?

Still... he didn't like being more vulnerable nor compromised.

He looked quickly at Gilbert and then turned off his mobile, deciding not to hear from him, but, most of all, not to search for him, running to him.

“Gil...”

“Yes?”, the German blinked, a bit confused and, why not?, worried about the weird gleam shining wetly in Antonio's eyes.

The Spaniard seem to find words heavy and hard, as stones dropping in his throat.

“I want to go out.”

“Uh? Sure. - he smiled – Let's fine a nice bar and...”

Antonio's eyes were cold, their spark distant.

He didn't trust Francis. He couldn't find in himself the strength to.

“I... want to have sex with someone else.”

“What?”

“I don't want Francis to be the only one who had others. I don't want him to have kissed, fucked, loved others, while I didn't. - he bit his lips almost to the blood, clenching his fists – I can't force myself to love another one, but I can have another person for once.”

Gilbert shivered, in horror. He didn't like where the thing was heading.

“Toni, but you...”

“We're not together yet, technically, and he is out with his ex. Should I trust him?”

“I...”

“Would you?”

Gilbert got stiff, “Toni, what will Francis feel?”

Antonio lowered his look, “He is not going to be here tomorrow, so he will never know... just like I will never know if he fucked Sadik this week, I guess.”

He couldn't find in himself the courage to believe, to hope, to trust.

He just felt all his will to do so abandoning him slowly.

Gilbert bit his lips, “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“Gil, please...”

The German felt as if he was close to sell his soul to something dark and bad. He barely liked the idea of casual sex, let alone with someone one clearly doesn't love and just to get back silently at their lover.

Yet, he understood Antonio was not doing it out of ugliness of the heart or cruelty.

It was anger, fear, it was more of all for himself, to feel his feelings were even, that his heart was safe.

He didn't like what he wanted to do, but he knew he never truly felt vulnerable.

He swallowed, defeating a sense of guilt and shame – he couldn't understand Antonio's feelings completely and he felt that, exactly because of this fact, he should have gave him the benefit of the doubt about that ridiculous gesture.

He remembered a song, though, that said love makes people do some truly horrible things.

And he felt those two did so much horror as beauty to one another, with their pride, their stupidity and their absolute, pure, passionate hearts.

He just wondered if they would have, in the end, found an equilibrium.

“... which type of place do you want to go to?”, Gilbert asked, in a sigh masked under enthusiasm and determination.

“A far away one. - Antonio replied – One where I never was with him...”

Because he couldn't have bear to remember Francis' face and imagine him there, next to him, as he tore apart their joy.

But he finally understood something more about Francis: the fear, the utter fear of love disappearing.

* * *

 

_Fourteenth Chapter – Light, heavy or dark_

* * *

 

Francis smiled, exiting from the airport, smelling again his Paris, the refreshing perfumes and scents, meeting again the old, dear, colors, the waxy warm cerulean of the sky and the fresh, sparkly silvery shades of the buildings.

He was still sleepy, since the travel left him annoyed and he could only barely rest on the flight. Finding a quick flight had been hell to pay for, but he really couldn't afford to stay more with Sadik.

He hurt him too much already and it was clear his presence was making it worse.

Also, obviously, he missed Antonio.

He didn't reply any message, but, despite being worried, Francis decided not to make a fuss about it, after all maybe his mobile got dropped in a fountain or broke.

Antonio could be pretty clumsy.

Ah, his Toni... he smiled, sucked his lips and chuckled. He couldn't wait to kiss.

And make love, love, true love's love, for the first time. Well, technically not the first, but it was their first time alone and Francis already thought about it all: he would invite him out for dinner, buy him cattleyas and take a walk on the bridges, in the night, sharing an infinite dance near the Seine, and then kisses, one after the other, eager and intense, stolen against walls, deep and salty kisses in the dark, ravishing and stunning kisses under the pale glow of streetlights.

And then, at home, they would have do it.

Francis had it in mind the whole morning, in details and rushed symphonies. He would have put Antonio on the kitchen table, keep kissing him, devouring his tender deer neck, put an hand into his pants, caressing him until the moans would have bent to needy.

He would have stopped, kissed his ear and pour them some wine – red, they both loved it more – then Antonio would have searched for him, insisted a bit, court his mouth in another kiss and then, then, Francis would have take him into his room and make that the best fuck of his life.

He would have pushed him on the bed, Antonio throwing away his shirt, Francis opening more his jeans, then his own, letting both their erections rub, throbbing, searching for each other. They would have moan, craving the lips of the other on their own, feeling their skins burning at the contact and freezing when left alone.

He didn't fail to notice how Antonio enjoyed the blow-job he received during their first time together, so he obviously planned to double the favor, this time. He would have made it slow, desperate, making Antonio squirm and need, thrust into his mouth with desire dripping into his grunts.

He couldn't stop imagining how cute Antonio would have been, blushing a bit, flustered, when looking down and seeing his mouth open, welcoming his whole cock, ready to suck him to the narrow. He wanted to feel Antonio's taste filling his mouth, haunt it as his existence did to his heart for such a long time.

Then he would have started to make him read, bringing him to hardness again, rimming him and then caressing his prostate a bit to bring him already with the need of something to pump inside him. And then...

A call.

“Hello?”

“Hello. - a deep voice – Are you free right now?”

“I am kind of at the airport. - he laughed – I'll be in the center in a while, why, babe?”

“Don't call me babe. - he hissed – I... need to talk to someone.”

“Problems with Kiku? - he guessed, silence – Abel? - more silence, Francis sighed – Abel?”

“Not really problems... just he said he wants to do something before living together.”

Francis frowned, confused, “Enlighten me, I guess?”

“Marry.”

“What.”

“Yeah. - Abel mumbled, embarrassed – Can you believe it? Before living together? And so strict, you needed to see how... confident and sure he was of what he wanted.”

“...and for some reason this aroused you.”

“Maybe.”

“Ah-a. - Francis smirked, shaking his head – And may I also notice you don't seem to think it's crazy?”

“It is crazy. - he shouted – I mean... is it, isn't it?”

Francis smiled, “Hey, if it's true love...”

“It's anyway a bit soon and also an hopeless romantic like you know. - Abel mumbled, confused – But, well, my boys love him.”

“I can't believe you call your bunnies your boys, you sound like a crappy band: Abel and the boys.”

“I'll paint a heart on my cheek with eyeliner...”

“Really?”  
“No. - he almost growled – I was making a joke.”

“You need to work on your sarcastic pitch, sometimes it's so dull and so not lively it sounds like a funeral mass.”

Abel sighed, “What should I do?”

“Why are you asking me? - Francis lifted an eyebrow – For how much it may flatter me, as you know, I totally love my big brother aura, I am quite frankly sure we weight things differently.”

“You're that friend.”, Abel explained, plainly.

“Mh?”

“The one people asks for when they're in doubts with their relationships. - he said – Sure, you can be kind of an hopeless flirt and all but... you kind of always care for people's feelings and... you kinda get them?”

“Are you saying I'm deep and emotionally intelligent?”, Francis make-whined, moved.

Abel groaned, “Forget what I said...”

“Babe... - Abel tried to protest, but Francis kept speaking, grinning a bit – It's early, theoretically, but you are a couple who works really well together, you know each other, perks and flaws... you have the kind of love that is mature enough for a wedding. So, if you're not jackshit scared, maybe there is a reason.”

“So... I should say yes?”

Francis laughed, “I can hear you smiling by the voice.”

“I'm not! - Abel lied, pouting – Aah, you're such a pain in the butt.”

“You need me at first to have fun later, then? - he chuckled – Why don't you come to get me with your car, though, ass?”

Abel took a second to reply, confused.

“Isn't Antonio coming to?”

“I didn't manage to talk to him since yesterday... - Francis admitted, sad – So I am not sure if he even knows... maybe he broke his mobile.”

“He was with Gilbert yesterday. - Abel munched words – Did you try to call him?”

“It's okay, it's going to be a romantic surprise...”

Abel seemed not convinced, but nodded, “Okay, mh, give me a second and I go out. Wait in a bar or something, I'll come soon...”

“Ah, babe?”

“I told you not to ca-”

“You're the one who is going to wear the dress?”

“I swear to god, as soon as I reach the airport I'll pull your hair until you get bald!”

Francis laughed, sitting in a coffee shop, decorated with various types of tea bags and prints of different treats. Mostly French ones, but not only.

Francis found himself smiling at the churros and considered taking a photo to send to Antonio. He sucked his lips a bit, innocently – he felt so happy... kissing Antonio, his Toni soon...

He took out the mobile from the pocket and opened the camera.

“Frog?”

Francis turned with a dull, “Uh?”

In front of him was a scrawny kid, eyes like wet grass and ruffled blond hair shading into green. He had a bunch of piercings on his face, but the whole still looked childish, like a doll.

A doll in punk clothes. Confusing.

“Do we... know each other?”, he mumbled.

The kid seemed to be heavily offended and crossed his arms, drumming his foot on the ground. He frowned, “You're as stupid as you look.”

Francis blinked “Hey, you wait a secon... - then, staring at him, he realized – Arthur?”

“Yeah.”

“How... - he stared at his clothes - … nice to see you again.”

“You look like a fashion model.”

“Thank you!”

“Not a compliment.”

“Oh. - Francis cleared his voice – Mh, how come here?”

“Came to visit the old man. - he looked at Francis a bit, then moved his hair behind the ear, as if he wanted to break his own glance – I study in London now, so we meet rarely.”

“Of course... - Francis smiled – Well, didn't you grow up really handsome under all of... that.”

Arthur laughed, heart-felt.

“You can't fake worth shit!”

Francis smiled, then got a smug smirk, “Well, my charm allows me to be brutally honest.”

“Must be hard then to accompany it with that face.”

“Excuse you, snarky brat?”, he replied, laughing.

“Offer me a coffee. - Arthur said, walking to a table and sitting down – You have to update me.”

Francis shrugged his shoulders, wondering why not, and sat on the side with the sofa. He smiled, putting his mobile back in the pocket.

“So, what does Arthur Kirkland study now?”

“Nothing.”, he cut short.

“You dropped?”

Arthur nodded, “I decided to play music with a band. We're cool. - he grinned, raising an eyebrow a bit in challenge – You should totally come to see us.”

Francis noticed that Arthur was trying to play it off cool, but he was actually a bit nervous. He smiled, recognizing a bit of that shy child he used to see as a small brother.

“Which awful-sounding satanic growl would I get?”, he asked, smiling.

“Punk, pure and raw. No poppish shit, no other stuff.”

“Sex Pistols or Ramones, just so I know in which bad life choice I'll fall.”

“The first ones, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

Francis caught Arthur's glance dropping on his lips so he sucked them a bit, as to break the spell. He was always a bit of a solitaire child, so maybe he didn't notice still some of his habits could come off as...

“Frog.”

“Mh?”

“Can I ask you something? I've meant to but... it would have been weird to call you just for that.”

“Then I guess it's lucky we met, shoot.”, Francis smiled, curious.

“Did you ever, mh, think back about... you know, us.”

“Sometimes? I guess. - he mumbled, scratching a bit his stubble – But, to be honest, I didn't expect you to remember it, I mean, not as something important.”

Arthur seemed to get dull.

He bit his inner cheek and gave a sharp smirk, “You look weird with the beard.”

Francis seemed a bit unsure, caressing it, “Ah, I thought it made me seem a bit older...”

“Doesn't suit you.”, he claimed.

Francis hit a bitter feeling.

“How long will you stay in Paris?”

“Three weeks. - he stopped a second and turned - Ah, waiter, two coffees. - he almost yelled, then returned to Francis – I have to return to London pretty soon, but I wanted to enjoy my time a bit...”

“...and meet an old friend is on the list?”

“Maybe.”

Francis seemed to sparkle in joy.

“I admit, I thought about you the other day... - he smiled sadly, remembering his parents' fights – It gave me a bit of melancholy.”

“R-really?”

“Ah! - he jumped – I have to introduce you to my boyfriend.”

“...your boyfriend?”

“Toni. - he smiled and Arthur felt his anger sting as he saw a smile that could have light up a city in the dark, a smile nobody gave him – My summertime friend, remember? Well, he is not my boyfriend already, but we sort of confessed and...”

“I see.”

“Mh? Did I say something wrong?”

“Not really, no...”, Arthur stared at his mobile.

As the waiter brought them coffee, Francis mixed his own with milk, then, trying to break the silence, mumbled.

“I guess... my coming out was weird?”

“A bit gross, yes. - Arthur scoffed – But I kind of suspected it, so.”

“Because of how pretty I look back then?”, he chuckled.

Arthur didn't reply, he just drank his coffee and then, quickly, swiftly, wrote his mobile number and mail on a napkin.

“Isn't this a bit rough?”

“Smells like teen spirit was written on a napkin.”, he mumbled, leaving as he came.

Francis frowned, confused, puzzled. Arthur was always nice, yet, a bit more in his world han in the one where the others lived. He finished his coffee and waited for Abel, like a star in the sky waits for the dawn.

Abel seemed fueled by an unsual joyful urgency. He kept speaking about Kiku and being sure and not being sure and life and wedding and bunnies and “but he likes also dogs and cats we'll have to be prudent” and how to organize their bookshelves.

He looked victim of an happy fever, of sunshine running through his veins.

Francis smiled, sitting comfortably in his car seat, shutting up and letting, for once, the other be the one to dominate conversation, filling it with thousand words he never spoke out loud.

Francis could see the joy shivering in his skin. He wondered if he looked the same, when he spoke about Toni.

“Ah, Fran...”

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry I forgot to ask how it went with... you know.”

“My ex-boyfriend?”

“Yep. - Abel fixed the bunny plush that kept falling from the dashboard – Drama?”

“It was my fault, so.”

“I'll take it for a yes... - he pouted – Do you want to come to my house and relax?”

Francis frowned, “Are you offering me pot to get over my break up?”

Abel shrugged, “Why not? It's a way. I can make you brownies.”

“No, thank you... - he sighed – The only thing I really want to do right now is...”

“...Toni.”

“I was going for a bubble bath, but I guess you're righter.”, Francis admitted.

Abel smiled, relaxed his shoulders and seemed to be delighted, satisfied, even overjoyed.

“What's up?”, Francis pouted.

“I won fifty euro.”

“Again?!”

Abel gigled, “You gave up Sadik for him. I knew this was the year. I knew it.”

“How? Did you read pot leaves?”

“No. I smelled it.”

“Did you also smell you took the wrong road?”

Abel chocked on a curse word and turned, quickly, “I'll make sure to arrive there fast, ok? You need to have a nice nice fuck.”

“You just want to get your fifty euro as soon as possible.”

“Hey, money makes the world go round and round.”

“Calm down, dancing queen. - Francis smiled – Here, stop here.”

Abel smiled, “Do you mind if I wait here? - he mumbled – Antonio needs to give me back a pair of boots, and I kind of wanted them tonight... you know, for Kiku...”

“...normally, I'd really want the details, but for this time, I'll try not to. - he smiled, winked – Wait here, I'll be a flash.”

He walked into the building and then the apartment fast, he couldn't wait.

 

As I find you,

once again,

which shiver

which shook

will my heart

break?

As my chest meets

the cold air,

I shatter,

in vain.

 

He put the keys quickly inside and opened the door smiling, “Hey! Toni! I'm home!”

He overheard a weird sound of sheets.

“Toni?”

He went towards the bedrooms, thinking, joyfully, sweetly, at Antonio, still half-asleep, waiting for his kisses to wake up. God, he loved him. Love, love, full and true.

“Mh? And you are?”

Francis turned to the sofa, where a girl was sitting, half naked, with on just one of Antonio's tanktops. Her bedhead ruffled, her make up gone, her breasts absolutely not kept in a bra.

“Ah... I am Toni's...”

“Flatmate!”, she guessed, almost shouting.

“Y-yes... and you are?”, he hesitated.

The girl chirped, “Oh, is it necessary? - she winked – Don't get fond of me, pretty boy, it's not like we're going to meet again.”

Blonde, blonde like the sun. Yet, to Francis, that girl seemed like the darkest of the nights, swallowing his dream.

 

As I keep you close,

there,

once again,

I'm dust.

As I keep you close,

in our lust,

once again,

lost and alone, I gasp.

You crush my skull

between your kisses,

my heart

between your silences.

 

“You... were... you know?”

“Ah, look, I like you, but doing it with his flatmate would be awkward. - she snorted – Sad, though. - she blew a kiss away – Ah, I'm going to shower, if he wakes up, high five him.”

As she closed the door, Francis felt his knees drop all the strength.

He fell on the sofa, swallowing dry words he couldn't dare to speak.

He shivered, hearing Antonio waking up and coming to the room.

 

Warning : I'll spend the 2 following weeks with my partner in a foreigner country. I will most surely write so you should be updated without doubt and I will try to write longer chapters so you will have more to read. The fic should end at chapter 22, more or less and, don't worry, it won't end in a sad way. 


	8. Chapter 8

_Fifteenth Chapter – Mountains, lemons, lack of answers_

* * *

 

“Ah Isabelle, I'm sorry for yesterday, look... - Antonio opened the door, eyes closed, smiling embarrassed – I don't know what... - he opened the eyes, horrified - … got into me.”

“Care to explain?”, Francis tried to smirk, but he couldn't stop sucking his lips in bitterness, trying to avoid letting the feelings crash him.

“Isa and I... I'm sorry, I...”

Francis chuckled, putting his hands in front of him, as to push him away or stop him from reducing him to debris.

“It's okay, I got it.”

“No, no, Fran! - Antonio came to him, a panicky smile, watery eyes – It was a mistake, I went out, I was drunk, doesn't mean anything.”

Francis tried to calm down.

He imposed himself to freeze his mind, to stop the fire he could feel riding his veins, destroying his thoughts in a blaze of flames and wrath.

One, two, three. One, two, three.

He was not the best person in the world.

One two, three. One, two, three.

He did mistakes too and sex was often one of them.

One, two, three.

He loved Antonio, they were not together, it didn't matter.

“I... Why? I was returning in a few days... - his laugh came out wrinkled, pained – I mean, sure, we were not together but it seems almost if you rushed to have it.”

Antonio tried to speak but shut up, left wordless like a tree in winter loses its leaves at the first wind.

He loved Francis deeply, he surely did. But he didn't want to be so vulnerable to that love that he would have ended up regretting his feelings.

He didn't want that too soft, too stupid heart of his to be bent and broken by Francis' flirty nature or by how moody he could have been.

Loving somebody who had such an high opinion of love was not easy.

He could have disappointed him so easily and Francis often thought he loved someone but then waved away, his tides leading far away once again, leaving someone behind to collect bones and shattered pieces.

And Antonio didn't have reasons to think himself different, to have faith he would have been a better or more loved or special occasion.

“I'm sorry, I was an idiot.”

Francis tried to swallow away the nausea coming back up. His stomach twitched and clenched.

He never felt so sick before. Not even on a plane, not even after eating bad food, not even after his parents' divorce was signed. Never.

One, two, three. Antonio was a good person, he didn't mean to hurt you, Fran.

One, two, three. Loving Antonio comes first.

“It's fine, I said. - he tried to sound easy-going but a flush of anger stained it all – I just don't get why.”

“I was drunk, it seemed to make sense.”

“What? Her hips?”

Why was he shouting? He was not angry, was he? In the end, he didn't have any right.

But , god, he said he loved him. They both said it.

Fuck, fuck it all.

“I just... I didn't want to be left behind.”

“What?”, Francis blinked perplexed.

Antonio gave a nervous giggle, caressing the back of his own head, “I... I didn't want to have only had you.”

“You mean like... - Francis shook his head – I'm not catching it, sorry.”

He put his hand around his forehead, massaging his temples, feeling on the verge of puking.

Antonio gulped, coming closer, “Do you feel sick? Is it the jet lag?”

Francis startled, backing up and almost slapping Antonio's hand away.

He panted out, dryly, “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.”

The Spaniard gave a sympathetic smile, but seemed still shaken by a terrified foreboding sensation climbing his nerves, “Why don't we sit down a bit, mh?”

Francis shook the option away, “Can you... explain better, please?”

“I felt... I felt you and Sadik would have...”

“Would have what?”, Francis burst out.

“I was sure you would have had sex with him!”, Antonio shouted.

“What!”

“Can you blame me?”

“Yes! - he yelled – Are you telling me you did it with someone else for this? Because maybe I was doing it with Sadik?”

“If I didn't mean much to you, I didn't want you to mean much to me!”

“You're an idiot: you meant everything to me. - Francis threw his bag on the ground, with a sound crack – What do you plan to do now?”

“I... look, fuck off. - Antonio shouted – The chances of you two fucking were too high, okay? Okay, you would have pulverized my heart if you came here and told me that look you wanted to be with him or that something happened or god knows what the fuck else, so...”  
“So breaking my heart seemed like such a better solution!”

“I... I didn't think about it, I...”

“Yes, you didn't think. - Francis roared – You just acted following your stupid dick.”

“As you always do?”

“At least I never cheated on someone.”

“We were not even together!”, Antonio cried out, feeling his heartbeat in his head.

Francis bit his lips to the blood, “And we will never be.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You can't break up with me for this... it's not even cheating.”

And then Francis smirked. Smug, proud, wicked, he smirked.

It was the coldest, naughtiest of his smiles, like if his heart became of ice and stopped hurting, probably long enough to allow him to reply.

“The problem is not what but why. You did it not because she had great boobs, not because you were drunk, not even because you didn't love me. - he clenched his teeth – You did it because you” didn't trust me. You couldn't trust me and you've been proven wrong. - he sucked his lips, shaking his head – This might not be a reason to break up, but it's a great reason not to start a relationship.”

Antonio froze.

His bottom lip quivered.

“But I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Antonio's fists grew hard, his knuckles whiter and whiter, “What kind of cheap love is that? Can you even feel it for real?”.

As Antonio shouted it, he felt he crossed a line.

And he could tell by the silence.

He shared many moments of silence with Francis: relaxed ones as children, emotional -even loveful - ones as teenagers, angry ones when fighting. But he never felt a silence made of such tense, vibrating, distance.

It was a fracture.

Francis was not replying, but not only, he almost didn't seem present in the same moment. His pupils looked widened, astounded and crumbled.

His blue was cracked by tears. His whole person seemed to be kept together by a weak glue a breath could have deleted.

Antonio didn't know what exactly he said, what he awoke, but, in that instant, he was sure he hurt Francis, for real. And that was the only thing he never would have wanted to do.

Francis stayed silent, trembling, barely standing up, as “You can't love anyone, you'll never be loved. You're just a love-addicted whore.” echoed in his head.

He could feel his heart breaking, the words of glass stabbing it and the blood gushing out.

He was empty.

Empty, completely and hopelessly.

No love to give, none to take.

“You can't love anyone, you'll never be loved. You're just a love-addicted whore.”

That what he was. What his mother was and what he was too, as in a curse, as in a DNA string of dreams and needs without mercy nor care.

“Ah... I guess you're right...”, he let out in a small, crumpled, chuckle.

“Fran... - Antonio caressed the Frenchman's elbows – Look, let's start it anyway, it's just a misunderstanding.”

“How is it? - Francis shook his head, nailing his blue eyes in Antonio's green ones – You don't trust me, you think I'm unfaithful and that I... - he seemed to get more wounded, the corner of his lips sharpening in a sad grimace, as he remembered - That my love is cheap or...” 

“But if we love each other is a waste not to try!”

“... is it?”

Antonio inclined an eyebrow.

Francis went on, smiling in misery, “I loved you for ten years and it always hurt but I never... never thought badly of you, not one second.”

“Me neither!”

“You just proved you do!”

“But... can you blame me?”

“I never cheated on someone, Toni, I wouldn't have started with you. - he almost roared, barely keeping all pieces of himself together – I'm... I'm moving on.”

“What? No, stop! - Antonio clenched Francis' wrist – After all of this time? After all of these years of longing, you just give up like that?”

“I never hoped, Toni, until this week.”, he shook Antonio away and closed the door behind him.

Antonio slammed the door of Francis' room and threw books on the ground, trying his hardest to make a mess and noise, so, maybe, he would have come back.

But every crushed book or DVD seemed to just hit the floor in sad silent, as snow. And, from the window, Antonio could see Francis enter in Abel's car in a rush.

“So, my boo... - Abel widened his eyes – What the fuck just happened?”

“I don't want to speak about it. - Francis mumbled – Please, take me somewhere else.”  
“Is my place okay?”

“Yes, please... - he hid into his shoulders, putting a hand on his mouth and nose – I... I think I don't want to return here for a while.”

Abel gave a look at the flat, seeing Antonio staring at the window, with a pained expression, yet motionless. He didn't dare to ask explanations and drove away.

As they arrived home, he called immediately Kiku, Gilbert and his sister, asking to divide, so to understand what was going on. Gilbert was outside his apartment in a blink and Abel deduced from this that something was already moving since way before he knew.

Francis was on the sofa, a blanket over the shoulders, sipping tea, with the dead expression of one who just got rescued before drowning in a black lake at night. Gilbert sat next to him and showed the most hyena ridens of his smiles, getting from Francis just a sigh to acknowledge his presence.

“Hey, birdie. - he tried to joke – You know, this seems to me like the usual fights of two lovebirds, now you bicker a bit and then, baboom, make up sex, am I right?”

“...Antonio can't stay in Paris anymore.”, Francis whispered.

“What?”

“His mother called me while I was in Turkey, she doesn't plan to pay anymore for his studies. - he chuckled darkly – I thought I could have convinced my mom to pay for his taxes too and... you know, close an eye on the apartment. She would have.”

Gilbert stood up, “What the fuck is that woman? Should he stop his courses now?”

“...she never cared much about him. - Francis sighed – I should have told him, he...”

“He won't go, Fran.”, Gilbert claimed, sure, holding Francis' hands.

Francis nodded, weakly then hugged the German, making him startle in surprise.

Abel mumbled, “Don't mind him, he gets super-clingy when sad.”

“I see! - Gilbert mouthed, a bit flustered – Fran, c'mon, tomorrow we are going to go to him and solve the thing, mh, you still love him, don't you?”

Francis nodded.

“Then it's...”

“I don't want to be with him if he can't trust me.”

“Ah... - Gilbert seemed confused – But you can change his mind.”

“What if I really am like my mother?”

“I don't get it...”, Gilbert admitted.

Abel stiffed, staring at Francis with a certain sadness painted in the face; he went to his room and, taking off his mobile, tried to call his sister. Emma, luckily, was hoping to hear from him soon, as she was sitting on the bed listening to the most overdramatic explanation ever since the Siglo de Oro theater pieces by an Antonio panicking and walking up and down the room moving his arms crazily around.

“...yes?”

“How is it going there?”

“Red code. - she sighed – There?”

“Ditto. - he groaned, disappointed – What should we do?”

Emma seemed to think, while her eyes were following a, always more nervous, Antonio, “I think they need to calm down and to think about stuff in cold blood.”

“Should we try to make them meet tomorrow?”

“Maybe... - she turned towards Kiku – Do you want me to hand your boyfriend the phone?”

“Yes, please. - a clacking nose, then a breath – Hey, babe.”

“Hey... - Kiku smiled – How are you?”

“I'm probably the finest one here. - he chuckled – I am sorry for tonight.”

“It's not a problem... - Kiku sighed – And, for what matters, do not worry too much over these two.”

“Mh?”

Kiku seemed to walk out of the room, as Antonio's rambles sounded further and further away.

“It's possible that they got so much hurt from all the waiting, that they need to take a break to see each other under new eyes, to know themselves again and start over without regret and grunge.”

Abel mumbled something unconvinced and Kiku laughed a bit, finding him cute.

“I don't think you really understand, Kiku, they were never... without one another.”

Kiku smiled to the phone, looking at Antonio, as he tenderly caressed the golden notebooks Francis wrote on. Tenderness, sadness, affection beyond time and distance.

“Birds don't need ties or collars to know where their home is. They always find it, even after flying miles and miles away from it.”

Abel frowned, but nodded, trying to catch the juice of what his boyfriend said.

“Ah, I forgot. - he facepalmed – Antonio's mother needed to speak with him, apparently she wants him to return to Madrid, but it's not clear why all of a sudden.”

“Mh... - Kiku whispered something that Abel couldn't grasp, then added, louder – I'll introduce him to the news, try to comfort Francis for now.”

“Ok, I love you.”

“To the moon and back.”

When Abel put down, he returned to the room, where he found Francis and Gilbert, tipsy due to wine and beer they stole from his cabinet, discussing animatedly...

“Hey, Abe, did you know birdie is actually into Star Wars?”

“Don't call me birdie. - Francis whined – And it's Toni who introduced me... as kids we loved stars and the universe... we used to draw constellations on the ceiling of our rooms.”

Abel smiled, Gilbert grinned seeing his victory coming closer.

“That's cute... were you already in love?”

“I am not even sure anymore. - Francis admitted, drinking wine directly from the bottle, his voice stumbling a bit – I am starting to think I've always been.”

“So you used every shooting star wish?”

“All of them. - he smiled, remembering – All of them, without a fail, for him to be the one.”

Gilbert smirked, “You know, I think you still do believe he is, a bit.”  
“I... - Francis drank a long, low gulp of wine – Whether he is or not, he needs to trust him.”

“Okay, but, you need to believe in him too...”

“I'm so afraid...”

His voice came out so dark and mellow, so naturally low, without that usually singing cadence he used, that both Abel and Gilbert felt like they found the raw core of something.

“...I'm so afraid to be alone.”, Francis confessed, in a weep.

Abel was about to get closer, to pet his friend, but the Frenchman just lowered his head and started puking, making Gilbert jump back in horror with a squirmy yell.

“Goddammit, birdie!”

Abel tried to suffocate a scream of pain, as he saw his perfectly clean furniture get dirty in what before was wine and vomit. He repeated to himself, like a mantra, that Francis had no fault and everything would have gone well, while Kiku's words returned to his mind.

A bit separated. Yes, maybe they needed it.

Maybe Francis needed to stop being afraid to be alone, maybe Antonio needed to stop being angry, maybe they both needed to calm their hearts, stop their storms and look in each others' eyes with a new, renewed, kindness, with a passion made more of hope than despair.

Abel didn't doubt they would have found a way, met again and fell in love again.

It was something in the way the looked at each other, lost in their colors – blue and green, sky and earth, sea in all its shades – and with the sweetest note in their eyes, as if, Abel thought often, they found in those eyes and only there their heaven.

And if you find paradise in someone's eyes, then, earth can do very little to delete that.

Antonio and Francis' bond was stronger than a simple affair. It made them overexposed, fragile, vulnerable, it was an electric shock, a torture and a pleasure. It was poetry and music.

“There, there, Gil, help me to clean.”

“Uh... sure.”

“Tomorrow he is going to have a massive headache and a massive kick in his ass. - Abel commented, protective – But for now, I'll spoil him.”

* * *

 

_Sixteenth Chapter – Bloodlines come together every time_

* * *

 

“Abel, dear, be still, if you don't want a nipple piercing.”, Emma mumbled, fixing her brother's white jacket.

Abel stiffened, biting his lips, strangling in the mouth a pissed, “Why did it break, why?”

“Because you went for a second-hand tuxedo. - Emma mocked – Relax, it's almost invisible.”

“Did he already arrive?”

“Just now. - a voice commented, confident, lingering on the door – How did you survive without me?”

“Toni!”, Emma shrieked and run to hug him.

“Don't help the guy with the luggage, eh, don't worry...”, Gilbert groaned, annoyed.

Emma gave him a sympathetic look and chirped, “No.”

“I'm so happy to see you. - Abel mumbled, stiff and awkward in his pearly white suit – How was the TGV?”

“Regrettable and long.”, Antonio smiled and slapped his friend's backs.

Gilbert put the suitcases down and turned towards Abel and Antonio, “How late are we?”

“We're going to start in a few minutes. - Abel looked around – If just everyone arrived.”

“Are we still waiting for someone?”, Antonio asked, curious.

A small, awkward silence answered him.

“David went to get him from the airport. - Emma muttered – They should be here in a moment.”

“I see... - Antonio frowned – Did he went away from Paris? That's so... unusual, he is so spoiled by this city.”

“He had an internship in London. - Abel explained, briefly – A friend of his found him an internship as comparative literature researcher.”

“A friend?”, Antonio scoffed, not believing.

“A friend. - Gilbert confirmed, firmly – A certain Arthur, Fran doesn't seem interested in him.”

“Two years passed, he could be interested if he wanted. I wouldn't care.”, Antonio laughed.

Abel frowned, “He had some flings, but nothing lasted more than two or three months. He is coming here alone. - he took a brief pause – Your stories seem to be mirroring each other lately.”

“I'm here alone just because my girlfriend had to work.”

“Girlfriend?”, Gilbert snickered.

“Yes, Laura. - he swallowed – A very nice girl, funny and pretty.”

“Well, doesn't she sound unique?”

Abel hid a smirk as Emma finished fixing a flower on his pocket and turned again to Antonio.

“I am completely over Francis, I am a new person. I wouldn't like him, I bet I'd even find him ugly if I looked at him closely.”

“Well, I was going to say you turned more handsome, but isn't it awkward now?”, a voice commented.

Antonio turned, discovering Francis standing in front of him, next to Abel and Emma's younger brother.

God, if he lied to himself.

Francis was even more charming than he used to: his hair got longer and he dyed them of a paler blond, that made the blue eyes shine brighter. His stubble seemed a bit more grown, but it didn't look bad. He was wearing a deep ocean-colored suit with a white shirt and he looked a bit thinner than before. He was always slim, but now his cheekbones were more evident and so the veins on his hands, like blue branches of a tree.

He looked tired, but as beautiful as ever.

He was keeping a hand in the pocket and the other was holding a paper bag with, probably, an expensive wedding gift.

“Fr-Fran...”

Francis smiled at him, more with a satisfied, smug, smirk than with a genuine expression. Antonio decoded sadness and misery under that.

“Toni. - he called, with the old familiar singing pitch – What an honor.”

Abel's glance passed from one to the other, like a lioness who needs to control her cubs.

Antonio pouted, then tried to make his voice bigger, “How come alone?”

He shrugged, giving a smug smile, “And lose the occasion to seduce every best man and maid of honor? Such a shameful waste.”

Antonio felt sad. Did his romantic friend turn bitter? Did sex became more important than love?

He noticed then that Francis' voice got truly deeper, lower, hoarser. He started smoking more, probably.

He felt his heart clenching.

Gilbert laughed it off, holding both of them at the same time, “There, there, let's not be hasty. Us three are at the same table, so I'll keep an eye on both of you.”

Francis swallowed, “Are we?”

Abel nodded, “Yes, you're the closest after the one with us and the closest family. - he tried a smile, but came out tense – We figured, though, you'd be grateful if we spared you Kiku's yelling father.”

“I distinctively remember an adorable sister, though.”

“I'd rather you refrain from lapping your advances all over Mei. - Kiku smiled, entering the room – It's time... - he stared at Abel – They're waiting for us.”

Emma clapped her hands, happily and gave both the brooms a small bouquet – mostly to destroy the secret bet the guests had on which of the two would have held one – made of a red tulip, a pink branch of cherry flowers and white camelias. Abel breathed out, nervous to the brink of his mallow, but Francis went to him and caressed his head, mumbling in French to calm him down, caressing his hair.

Kiku's eyes moved on Antonio, who seemed to linger on the edge of a word he couldn't dare to express.

Francis combed a bit Abel's hair with his fingers and winked, “You can do it. And throw the bouquet in my direction.”

Abel nodded, laughing, letting the tension drop from his muscles. Happy.

They followed into the office, sitting in a silence full of respect and, why not, sanctity. To Francis, there was something sacred in the room, in that moment. Whether god liked it or not, whether how blasphemous it sounded, nothing else mattered if not the way those two held hands, staring and smiling, like children. They waited two years for that wedding, to organize it perfectly, to have the money, to be sure it was the best; and then there they were, fingers entwined like ribbons in a dress, praying just to be together every following day.

Francis kept staring at them, seeing all he ever wanted in front of him, in such a fragile and honest form he was never able to get. Antonio, instead, looked at Francis, wondering what went through his mind.

Why didn't he find love?

Did he try or did he give up?

Did he still think of him from time to time?

“Because I do...”, he whispered.

Francis turned, confused, “Mh?”

“I... I'm sorry, I...”

Francis smiled, a bit shyly, tenderly, “Kid...”

“I'm not a kid.”

“You are. - Francis seemed to have tears in his eyes but he fought them back, then sighed – Aren't they cute?”

“If you like the whole mysterious with expressions hard to decode thing they have going on, I guess...”, he mumbled.

Francis laughed.

And his laugh sounded bright and thirsty of life, as if he didn't laugh in the last two years.

Antonio stood up and gave Francis his hand, shining smile and confident tone, as he claimed, “C'mon, let's go together to the celebration location.”

Francis laughed, “Shouldn't we go with Gilbert?”

“He can handle himself.”

Francis didn't seem to wait too much, as he saw the crowd cheering the grooms and then moving towards the exits. Antonio grabbed firmly Francis' hand, discovering it really got skinnier, and then Francis held him back, with a strength that Antonio was happy to see again and still.

They rushed out, avoiding photographs and rice, reaching the car that Antonio rented for the day and entered, quickly, eager. They laughed again, Francis touching Antonio's shoulder distractedly, Antonio lingering on Francis' lips with his glance.

How light did the heart feel all of a sudden?

“I missed you...”, Antonio confessed, turning on the car, making it run, wind blowing their hair.

Francis smiled, resting his face on the palm of one hand, looking outside the window, “Me too...”

“Fran?”

“Yes?”

“Are you eating?”

“Badly.”

“...why? - he seemed worried, something Francis didn't dare to hope in – You're not... starving yourself or something, are you?”

The Frenchman shook his head, but didn't laugh it off. His smile seemed dense in sadness.

“I don't like cooking for one.”

“Really?”

“I had to be alone to discover it. - he said, letting the wind caress his hair – It's something I never knew, because you were always with me... I was never alone.”

“You were afraid to.”

“I still am... - he confessed in a whisper, eaten by the high speed of the car, then spoke louder – I dropped some kilos, I never felt like putting really myself into it.”

“So it's two years you don't bake your masterpiece clafoutis?”

Francis nodded, “More or less.”

“That's a crime against humanity. - Antonio claimed, with a victorious smile – Invite me for dinner and make it for me.”

“Blunt and bold.”

“As always.”, Antonio smiled, charmingly.

Francis felt something that filled him with fear and joy at the same time: butterflies. Again.

And it was unfair and it was wrong.

Antonio was giving him again butterflies.

After years, still, as always.

“Then why don't you ask it directly, Toni?”

Francis voice was suddenly as deep and firm as the thick darkness of a stair leading to a dark underground room. He looked as if he couldn't bear games, lies nor distractions.

Like if he couldn't bear his usual self.

Usual... was that even the usual Francis? He saw him flirt a bit, with some girls, and getting moved over a wedding, so he didn't seem to have changed much; yet, a weird, crippling, bitterness seemed to come out at times, blue and bruised.

How much of him was still the same? Would have his skin taste the same, smelled the same, would have his soul shine the same way in the sweet darkness of a night of love?

He would have wanted to ask if there was still love in him for that kid he played hide and seek and love with for ten plus years, between fields of gold and a Paris apartment, if he ever thought of him while fucking a skinny boy with the color of caramel, if all the possibilities of what they could have been or could still be ever kept him alive at night with a pop album in the background.

The Spaniard went on the side of the road, stopping the car and collected all his badly assembled courage to ask, “Do you hate me?”

Francis blinked slowly, breathing the salty scent of the spring, “I couldn't if I tried.”

“Did you try and failed?”

“I couldn't even bring myself to try.”, he confessed.

Antonio was still staring at those lips and Francis couldn't take off his eyes from his tasty neck. In a second, exchanging a glance, they both knew if they could have they would have had sex in that car, madly, at the side of the highway, with all the desperation and the passion of two teenagers.

And they both knew they were terrified of it.

“Toni...”

“Yes?”

“Do you want to try being friends?”

Antonio nodded, almost without hesitation, as Francis smiled, seeing his reaction.

They both knew that was the first step: finding back the friend and brother and only after thinking about the rest.

Antonio offered his hand to Francis to held and the Frenchman obeyed, enthusiastically. A small, slightly painful, spark seemed to thrust their wrists.

Francis' eyes shone in a gleam of mere blue fire and he pulled Antonio on himself, forcefully, holding his head by the side. Antonio shivered, then let his muscles relax, opening his mouth, kissing Francis' open one.

He could feel his tongue again, full and big, his mouth hot and welcoming... he could feel his kiss, that kiss he needed every night and every day.

That kiss he longed for and needed and regretted.

That kiss that was so awfully perfect to make every other kiss tasteless.

Francis' hand run on Antonio's back, Antonio's fingers clenched his head, caressing the hair and pulling them, gaining kisses and bites on the bottom lip.

They could feel it all: the shivers trembling in the icy windy day, the bones searching for warmth, the sparks, the moist arousal, the clenching one to the other.

Francis pulled Antonio even closer, grabbing him by the waist, running his fingertips under his tight-fitting clothes. The Spaniard let out a small nodding moan, feeling Francis caress his spine, painting him with his soft touch.

He arched his back, pushing more against Francis, who separated quickly and opened the last buttons of his shirt, kissing his stomach, eyes closed, then biting it as a promiscuous promise.

Antonio gulped dryly, his eyes burning Francis with desire, while the other caressed his skin through fabric with an irresistible and arousing adoration.

But then, they stopped, as their eyes met and with them truth.

Antonio got flustered, caught red-handed in the most impure thoughts, and stuttered out a clumsy, “... friends?”

Francis panted, nodding, “Yeah. Umh. - he put his hair back, trying to cool down – Friends.”

“With benefits?”

“Wouldn't that complicate stuff? -Francis asked – You, me, we... we loved each other before.”

“No ties.”, Antonio claimed, faking confidence.

Francis furrowed his eyebrows, “No ties?”

“We're just friends... if it happens, it happens, but it doesn't, you know, imply stuff.”

Francis nodded, finding troubles in stopping his heartbeat. God, if he wanted more...

“Fran?”

“Yes?”

“You don't love anyone, right now, do you? - Antonio asked, trembling a bit still under Francis' touch – Abel said...”

“I don't... - he sighed – It ended two weeks ago.”

“English?”

“Greek. - he admitted, obviously he went for the hot, olive-skinned, tender type, he went for the fake Antonio, once again – I... I am single right now.”

“I have a thing, but... I don't want it anymore.”, Antonio confessed, keeping his glance glued on Francis' mouth.

“So this is mere sex?”

“Absolutely.”

Francis felt a bad sensation inside. He still liked Antonio, he never could forget him and that seemed a lot like tying a suicidal knot at his neck.

But he also couldn't deny to himself a sense of need, of belonging. He wanted Antonio and if sex was the only way he could had had him, fuck it, sex would have been the answer.

“Should we set some rules?”, Francis asked.

Antonio nodded, separating himself from the Frenchman's arms, and mumbling, thinking, “If you fall in love and want another relationship, it's okay to stop, and the same goes for me.”

“So it... can finish at every instant?”

“Not the being friends. - Antonio rushed to precise – Only the sex green light part.”

Francis agreed and added, serious, “We won't say it to anyone else... it's going to be our secret.”

He was afraid to fall in love with Antonio again. He couldn't understand how safe Antonio looked... maybe he was really easy to get over or forget?

Except for the sex.

Maybe he was like a human sex toy, nothing more.

Still, he couldn't give up Antonio: those years without him had almost destroyed his heart and he was sure he couldn't have handled it.

“Another thing...”

“Yes?”

Antonio's voice shook, “....it's forbidden to go away for years.”

Francis smiled as if he saw the cutest thing in the universe and held Antonio in his arms, keeping him warm and safe.

“Never again...”

“I need you...”, Antonio cried, against Francis' skin, burying his face in his clothes, as the Frenchman would stroke his hair gently.

“Me too, prince of Borneo.”

Francis' voice echoed sweetly as dawn, soft as the tender colors of a morning sky, and Antonio let that echo enter in him and fill his empty spaces, the sad bones and the muscles and organs that waited days, months, years to have him back.

Love fills the caves it digs.

And Antonio felt full once again.

He kissed Francis, smiling against him.

“We should go to the wedding...”, Francis reminded.

“Do we have to?”

“Don't whine. - a laugh, a warning – I might book an hotel room in the same place, if you want.”

“Just for us?”

“Just for us.”

* * *

 

_Seventeenth Chapter – Fingerprints on lace_

* * *

 

Weddings are pretty much like a dance: they have rhythm, they sometimes change pace, you can have a break and then start again, and there is a choreography but everyone sees a different piece of them, from its own corner and moment, everyone sees only his partner for real and the rest melts, unimportant.

Kiku and Abel seemed impossible to separate, they barely interacted with the others, if not for some photo and the first dance. They both seemed frankly exhausted, in the happiest way, but still exhausted, laughing at nothing and having their eyes half-closed.

Kiku did the night turn for almost two weeks to be sure it wouldn't have been inappropriate to ask his boss for the day off and Abel organized almost everything while finishing his second thesis; it was already much they were awake, but, more than everything, it was the tension leaving their shoulders to make the difference.

Around them, the many siblings of both seemed occupied in listing the flaws of their beloved, trying to add how patient the other will have to be to bear with them, jokingly, yet a bit charged with the sweet cruelty of those who will miss and can't admit.

After a couple of hours, while tasting the second type of second course, Abel left the table a moment to go to “check on the disasters” and strolled to the table where an extremely offended Gilbert was complaining.

“Something wrong?”

“These two abandoned me in the church!”

“Eh?”

Francis chuckled, “Oh, Gil, it was just a simple joke.”

“Yeah, we thought it would have been funny...”, Antonio lied.

Gilbert pouted, “Joke? I had to travel with the car of an aunt of Kiku that barely spoke English and kept staring at my eyes.”

“Well, you made a hit!”

“The first of his life...”

“You two! - Gilbert fumed – You're not funny... - he mumbled, embarrassed – Abel, tell them to stop.”

“Don't bully the special kid. - Abel replied, receiving a fist in the stomach as reply – Is the food alright? I am speaking in particular to the picky one.”

Francis gave a smirk, “Yes, the food has my approval. - he claimed with fake arrogance – But, to be fair, you should have told me the colors were pearl and pink.”

“Of the wedding? - he frowned – Why?”

“I wouldn't have dressed in sapphire blue.”

“I don't see the drama, but I'll alert the police immediately.”, Abel mocked, keeping a blank expression.

Antonio gave a small laugh, which made Abel turn: did they make up?

“So... should I guess no war of the roses is going on here?”

“Not for now... - Francis promised with a smile – But you know how Antonio becomes when it's dessert-time.”

“I'll make sure him to have the bigger slice of cake, so you won't be deprived of it.”

“Excuse you all, it's not my fault if my metabolism here is the best one.”

Gilbert pinched Antonio's cheek making him let out a childish whine of pain. Francis found him so cute he could have eat him alive.

He missed his Toni so deeply...

Those two years outside Paris were terrible under many point of views: first off, the city, London, was the opposite of what he loved or needed in a place and he found himself missing his France so deeply his heart felt rootless and his mind emptied, secondly, as an extrovert he needed friends, lots, and intimate ones too, but he couldn't seem to find people in England he shared his sense of humor nor interests with, not even at the University, and he often felt lonely, only with Arthur, who, for how much of a good friend was brusquely-aloof, easily-offended and quick-tempered , lastly his love life had been truly disappointing.

Yes, disappointing was the word.

After Antonio, he had a few months, between four and six, of mere sex. No other implications, no feelings. He couldn't even bring himself to feel anything special. His heart hurt so much it was impossible to breath if he remembered Toni.

The stitches never stopped hurting. They burnt his edges, they kept tensing, pulling, making his flesh beg for relief.

He started dating again, hoping maybe he would have fall in love again, he would have felt that shiver, that joy, but nothing big happened: a series of mistakes, of love songs drowned in cheap wine, of dreams aborted in tears and shouts.

But a kiss is still just a kiss and sex is still just sex. Love was his Antonio and of him he knew nothing anymore.

He had a scar inside his soul, making the skin of his feelings wrinkled and burnt, pulling, desperate.

Antonio smiled, looking at him, and Francis could only smile back.

Antonio never knew how beautiful he was to him, how warm, how perfect. He was charming, in his own way, without words, without acts, just his pretty face and that attitude, as world was easy and nothing could stop him. He was a mustang.

“Fran, all fine?”

Francis nodded, moving his leg a bit and playing footie, letting his foot find Antonio's and caressing his ankle. Antonio at first seemed surprised, then smiled and replied.

Gilbert stared at both of them, questioning.

“Are you two up to something?”, he hissed, suspicious.

Antonio shook his head quickly, nervously, “Us? Pft.”

“Yeah... - Gilbert looked at them slowly, then moved the chair back and stood up – You go on doing your thingy thing, I'm going to... grab some... sausage... okay, no, bad random food pick, steak, some steak.”

Francis chuckled, “I'm glad to see he didn't change one bit.”

Antonio smiled, reached out and caught Francis' hand in his own, making the Frenchman turn and stare, lost, in his eyes.

“How much do you care for that cake?”, he whispered in a lewd pitch, his voice hotter than flames, his look admitting no runaways.

“Absolutely zero.”, Francis swore, his glance falling on Antonio's full, rosy lips and how much he needed to bite them.

They rushed to the restaurant entrance and asked for a room in the hotel connected to it. The receptionist seemed quite confused, as if he expected no gay couples to be invited at a gay wedding, but then assigned them a double room, handing them the key with a subtle disgust.

Antonio smirked, annoyed, “Oh, thank you! We're going to have wild anal sex in that bed.”

“Toni!”

Francis pulled his friend with him in the elevator, but the Spaniard kept shouting, “And it's going to be awesome, my butthole is so loose it could even fit your giant daddy issues in it.”  
“Toni!”

“And my boyfriend's cock here is bigger than your head you jackass.”

As finally the elevator left the first floor, Antonio burst in laughter while Francis stared at him, perplexed, an eyebrow lifted, like if he had in front some weird, cute, impossible to understand animal.

“...your boyfriend?”

“Dramatic effect. Friend with benefits didn't sound as cool.”

“I see. - Francis smiled, playing with the room key – Forty. Nice number.”

“Is it?”

“I like even numbers.”, Francis mumbled.

Antonio smiled, resting his head against the elevator's walls, counting the floors. Wasn't it weird, being there? Wasn't it weird going about things always in the most complicated and intricate ways? Ah, but that was so much like them, after all.

He stared at Francis in the eyes, then came closer to him, kissing him sweetly, one of those slow tongue dances, filling each others' mouths, craving flavor, in which a kiss melted needy into the following as if they couldn't stop.

With Francis' tongue still between his lips, Antonio passed his hand between their trousers, caressing his newly found lover's crotch, massaging it to hardness and feeling the arousal tense and climb through Francis' veins, making the Frenchman's kiss more passionate and his clench on Antonio's waist tighter.

His clench almost burnt, Antonio shivered in anticipation, deepening the kiss.

The keys trembled in their hands, confusedly, they entered and Francis closed in a strong slam, while Antonio threw away his shirt and trousers, feverish in need. Francis reached for him and started to kiss him from behind, leaving a constellation of soft touches with his lips on his back. Antonio rubbed against him, asking for more on his neck.

Francis didn't seem to crave to accelerate the rhythm, despite their common growing arousal, as if he decided he needed time to taste properly, to properly feel. Antonio was a lento, no more rushed, no more quickies with hickeys and panting mouths left half-way.

“Fran... - Antonio seemed impatient – My back is not the most interesting part of me, you know?”

Francis chuckled against his lover's soft skin, tasting its natural saltiness, its tender texture. His lips traced kisses of fire, that made Antonio's crave just harder to bear.

“Oh c'mon...”

Francis smiled again, his voice low, liquid yet dense, “Let me savor it.”

Antonio separated, turned and let himself fall onto the bed, pulling Francis over him, stating clearly what he wanted and how fast. His eyes shone in determination, “I want you.”

“Me?”

“You. - he swallowed – Specifically you. I want you.”

Francis smirked, naughty, interpreting it in the easiest way, “And where, by grace?”

Antonio got flustered, pushed away shame, and, with his lips burning and caught in pins and needles by desire, exhaled, “In me... I want you to fuck me.”

Francis smiled, tenderly, caressing Antonio's short hair. He looked so fine...

“You're terrible at dirty talking, you know?”, he chuckled.

Antonio smiled, caressing Francis' cheek, “That's because I don't like it. - he kissed softly Francis' lips, pulling his lip a bit, holding it between his teeth – Now, do me.”

“At your beck and call.”

Francis started to kiss again Antonio's chest, making the Spaniard cling onto him, his hands on Francis' back, barely keeping themselves from scratching. He felt his skin being set on fire, following the trail left by Francis' tongue, as it slowly descended from the neck to his chest, tormenting his nipples, licking them and then pulling them slightly with his teeth.

Antonio arched his back, suffocating a moan, holding back grunts, while clenching onto Francis, who gave a pained groan without stopping his operation.

“Move...”, Antonio almost whined.

God, he couldn't wait longer... he missed Francis, he missed him so, and he waited for that moment for so many months, he felt old just by thinking about it.

“Please...”

Francis seemed to sigh, then separated from the chest and caressed Antonio's hips, rising them slightly, then his inner thighs, making his erection stiffer. Antonio writhed a bit, trying to match Francis' movements, trying to get more of that gentle, passionate touch.

“Did you had any male lovers in these years?”, he asked, then, bluntly.

Antonio shook, “W-why?”

“Asking.”, Francis murmured, kissing Antonio's thighs and sending shivers and sparks down his spine.

The Spaniard caught back a moan, “None of...”

He felt Francis' tongue slip to his balls, lapping them, sucking slightly the skin, inebriating himself with the strong scent. Antonio could feel heat pooling in his crotch, blood rushing through.

“I need to know how to prepare you...”, Francis spoke softly, before opening Antonio's legs more and aiming to his cave, which he started to court, licking the soft ring of flesh, kissing it. Antonio moaned, needy.

“Only girls. - he let out – Only girls...”

He couldn't bear anyone else in.

He couldn't bear the idea to be submissive to anyone else nor to have anyone else dominating him.

More than everything, he couldn't bear the idea of someone deleting Francis' traces in him , passing over them.

His insides belonged only to him.

Francis smiled, licking Antonio's anus more, inserting his tongue slowly. The Spaniard arched against him, his cock throbbing on Francis' hair, dripping precum just from that foreplay. God, he needed him.

Feeling Francis' tongue moving inside him was amazing. He felt so hot, as if he was melting, but it was not enough. As he moved, circling, he knew he needed more, he needed to feel his walls tense around Francis, almost tore apart.

“More...”

The Frenchman nodded, chuckled, “A second.”

He went to the minibar, extracted a bottle of water and drank some, then opened his wallet and took out a condom and tree mono-dose lube packets. He threw the bottle of water on the bed and Antonio caught it, “Did it taste bad?”

“There's not a place where you'd taste badly. - Francis mumbled, taking Antonio's erection in his hands, rubbing and stroking the staff with one hand, Antonio writhing – Just being prudent.”

And as he said that, he took it in his mouth, making Antonio shake and wiggle. He mouthed a scream, when Francis started sucking him.

The blonde alternated licking its head, twisting a bit the tongue over it, to wrapping the whole cock in his mouth, deep-throating it. Antonio's toes were curled and tense, as he felt an orgasm ready to melt in him, charging and building up in his dick.

Nothing felt so good, ever.

Sure, he received blowjobs in those years, even nice ones, but Francis sucked it as if it was the best taste in the universe. He was so diligent, so zealous in fulfilling it, as if he didn't wait for anything else that putting that goddamn erection in his mouth until he squeezed out of it all the sperm an adult man could produce. Antonio felt his stomach clenching, his heart squeezing in his chest.

As Francis kept sucking him, provoking his tip, torturing it even, taking him on the edge, Antonio could feel something else, a bit cold, around his ass and then, finally, a finger entered him.

He tensed all around it, even more as he saw Francis' expression changing from regularly into it to truly deeply aroused. He didn't stop deep-throating, but he furrowed his eyebrows more, got a bit of a concerned look, while his own erection seemed to rise.

Antonio felt proud to provoke such a reaction in someone more expert than he was.

Francis separated a second, mumbling, “Tight”.

With another packet of lube, Antonio received two and then three fingers, to which he felt already quite full. He started to move on them, eager, needing to feel them deeper, but Francis seemed to have other plans as he started moving inside quite precisely.

In a moment, he felt it: a shock, a hot, dense, strong shock inside him.

It was like an earthquake shaking his butthole and his whole back at the same time. He moaned: loudly, slutty, carelessly, moving against more and more on Francis' fingers as they teased his prostate.

Francis kept tasting him, savoring every drop of precum, every throb his dick gave, taking pleasure in the desperation he could feel dripping from Antonio's shakes.

As he pressed on the prostate more, while sucking him, Antonio came into his mouth, filling it, and moaning in pleasure, voice wet with his orgasm.

Francis didn't seem to blink, as he swallowed it, smiled at Antonio and started to stroke him again.

“Ah, wait, I'm not fourteen anymore, you know...”, he panted, feeling pleasure returning already, stronger than before.

“It's easier if you are aroused. - Francis claimed, kissing the tip and then taking care also of his erection, pumping him to full hardness – I don't want you to feel pain.”

Antonio stared at the ceiling, speechless, his back feeling as if he didn't work for a single day in years, his hips so relaxed he felt almost liquid.

“Ready?”

Antonio nodded, holding onto the sheets of the bed, white knuckles, rubbing teeth.

Francis put the last lube dose on his cock, putting it close to Antonio's entrance. He twisted, caught both in fear and lust.

Francis started to kiss Antonio's stomach, making him relax, then entering slowly, inch per inch, filling him without rush. Antonio felt close to fainting at how good it felt. It was heaven.

Francis was filling him to the point he was not sure where he ended nor how deeper he could have even go. He was simply full, to the brink, squirming. His ass was clenching around Francis' erection, twitching slightly as if it wanted to swallow even more, to feel completely broken.

He almost couldn't speak, enjoying at its fullest that sensation.

Francis, on the other hand, was afraid to feel way too good. Antonio was so tight and so hot, he was not sure how to keep himself from banging him without mercy.

He wanted to fuck him wildly, to make him loose , but he tried to calm down and, simply, tried to move gently. From the first thrust, though, Antonio started to grunt, noisy, squirmy – his voice got suddenly high, crystalline, as he welcomed Francis in once again.

Francis entered completely, finally, with a relieved moan, while moving closer to Antonio's face, so that the Spanish boy managed to hold him. He started to caress his back again, but soon the caresses became scratches, as Francis started really to thrust into him, fast, strong, deep, leaving him breathless.

He sank his nails into his flesh, digging, making Francis arch with a roar of pleasure and pain. He started to slam mercilessly into Antonio, making him scoot, shaken to the mallow.

Antonio kept moaning, his accent getting thicker and thicker as the arousal grew.

Francis didn't seem to even answer to his calling, as if he were somewhere else: his expression was completely focused, intense, leaving Antonio to just sink his nails into him and then, needy, to entwine his legs around Francis' waist as he thrust into him once again, balls-deep, making Antonio feel his hips and balls slap his ass, as Francis entered into him.

“God... good god... - Antonio bit his bottom lip – Feels so good, Fran, more...”

Francis didn't really to seem to be waiting for instructions, as he kept thrusting faster and deeper, taking his cock almost out of Antonio's warm hole and then slamming again, banging, making Antonio feel a shock of pleasure climb through all of his spine.

His cock was already about to burst again, rubbing against Francis' stomach, as the Frenchman penetrated him over and over.

“Fran...”

“Toni... - he called back, kissing his neck, sucking it, without stopping moving his hips in and out – I missed you so.”

“I missed you too, I missed you too... - Antonio moaned, tried to hold back more but his voice went reduced to a wanton jam of needy squirms and whimpers as Francis started to aim for his prostate, hitting it at every thrust – Ah, ah... god... god, yes...”

“How much do you need me, mh?”, Francis asked, bending against Antonio's ear.

His voice was dark and hot, mellow as wax, and as scorching.

Antonio felt the strength abandon his knees as his toes couldn't bear the tension of the orgasm anymore and he could feel his legs needing more and more Francis' support. Francis kept rocking into him, deeply, marking him with his movements, thrusting as if he had to tear him apart, without any more control.

“I need you, I need you in...”, Antonio cried out, lust drowning his words in broken moans.

Francis turned beastly: his clench on Antonio's thighs got firmer, harder, impossible to escape, his thrusts had now a fury, a need to possess and devour, while his blue eyes seemed ready to swallow him as a dark night without moon.

Antonio squirmed in delight as he felt Francis' hand stroking his erection, pumping it, while he kept thrusting into his sorry, red, twitching asshole, craving for nothing more than being fucked more and more.

“Yes, yes! - he shouted, while his lover pushed into him, his loins aiming to his sweet spot, making him melt into a puddle of indistinct grunts of pleasure – Yes, god, more!”

Francis slammed into Antonio's prostate while jerking his erection, making him come so hard and so fully that the Spaniard blacked out with a smile.

He woke up at the next movement, while Francis parted his legs more, sinking into him with all of his throbbing, thick, needy erection, coming into his ass and filling him.

Antonio was panting, as Francis fell over him, as to sleep there. Antonio would have liked to protest, at first, but didn't, as he heard Francis' heartbeat rushing.

He smiled, waiting for them both to calm down, while, slowly, tenderly, their heart started to meet the same rhythm.

 


	9. Chapter 9

_Eighteen Chapter - So tender it hurts_

* * *

 

They say everyone has at least one undeniable talent, one thing that they can do perfectly, divinely. Antonio's would have probably be making coffee.  
Even their extremely picky on the matter Italian cousins who could become truly nationalistic about food had to admit it was great. The origin of such a talent was though unsure, unexplainable even.  
But that was for sure and, aware of that, the first thing Antonio did that morning, as he got up, was preparing Francis a cafe au lait to die for.  
Awoken by the delicious scent, the Frenchman zombied to the small table with the coffee machine of the hotel and mumbled something fairly impossible to grasp, but, somehow, between the grunts, Antonio though understood a "I missed your coffee..." that warmed up his heart.  
"I missed your grumpy morning face...", he said, smiling and smudging Francis' cheek as one would do with a puppy.  
"Why is my head so heavy?"  
"We woke up at 2 am, fucked again, three times, then you drank a bottle of a liqueur called something like mother-in-law's milk that is probably even banned in some states and shouted "Look, Toni, it's as sour as your mom" and then feel asleep.", Antonio mumbled, sipping his coffee.  
"That's kinda ungraceful. - Francis admitted - I guess I was nervous."  
"Probably... - Antonio smiled - But it's hard to get why."  
Francis bit his inner cheek, tasting a bit of his own blood. Antonio lifted his look, locking eyes with him.  
It felt right to be together like the night before, but they both felt crushed by the sure feeling of something missing. They both opted to be just friends with benefits and yet at the same time it was already not so easy to be happy just with that kind of fragile, unstable bond. Especially after sex, they just both felt so much more intimate than what they were supposed to. Like their souls entwined together with their fingers and their pieces found their corresponding ones.  
Francis hummed a song Antonio couldn't decode properly; it sounded like one of those swing pieces people play on Christmas holidays even if it has nothing to do with it. He was about to ask, when his mobile decided to ring filling the room with a high-pitched to eardrum torture level version of Girls Just Want to have fun.  
"Emma?"  
"Hi, I was wondering: in which room did you go to consume your sodomistic impulses?"  
"We didn-"  
"Toni, please. - she cut short - I normally wouldn't care, but does your candy-coated half know? - her pitch became sharp - Or is it like four weddings and a funeral?"  
"Wo-ho! Slow down, with Laura is not that serious. - he quickly replied, making Francis startle in attention - Also, since when are you this..."  
Emma put down.  
"What the hell? - Antonio exclaimed - What's wrong with her?"  
"I guess it's the hormones. - Francis mumbled - It's the fourth month, after all."  
Antonio waited, tasting the empty silence.  
"I feel I lost too much by leaving. - he admitted in a sigh - She and Abel and Gilbert... they all matured somehow. They have their lives together."  
"Gilbert?", Francis raised an eyebrow.  
"Ok, not Gilbert. - a laugh - But I feel like I still didn't do anything with my life."  
"Did you speak to your mom about music?"  
"Nah, she'd kill me. - Antonio shrugged - I'll finish my degree and then think it out."  
"Hm..."  
"And you? How is poetry going?"  
Francis let out a mocking chuckle, "In no way. I win contests but nobody would publish a book of poems by a perfect stranger. They barely sell Baudelaire these days."  
"I guess... - Antonio seemed to get sad - But giving up sounds like an awful waste."  
"It was never great, anyway.", Francis brushed it off.  
"It was to me. Always."  
"I guess writing essays is already a lucky thing... I suppose. Hm... - he got nervous, sucked his bottom lip and spoke again - I published a couple this year."  
"How did you find the time-?"  
"Nothing makes you dedicate to studies more than disliking the rest of your life."  
Antonio frowned, finishing his coffee in a long sip.  
"What were they about?"  
"Romance poetry in the different Mediterranean countries and the influence of literature over following language development.", Francis mumbled, as it was nothing big.  
Antonio laughed loudly, happily.  
"That's so like you!"  
Francis smiled sweetly, "I guess...", he caressed the gently white porcelain of the cup, contemplating holding Antonio's neck and compressing it a bit, while kissing his chest, feeling the vibration of his neck veins' getting tenser and more needy, his breath a bit caught back, while his hips would have swayed, liquidly, aroused, rubbing towards him.  
Antonio's hair was slightly wet, probably he had a shower and Francis couldn't help but follow the traces of those sweat pearls on his tanned skin.  
He smelled good, like mornings sticky with joy and dirty with light.

Search for me  
in corners of  
plain light,  
I stand still - I wait,  
I linger on  
nothing.  
As the drops of salt  
melt  
on my skinned lips,  
I call back at you,  
in front of you,  
unseen.

Francis couldn't help but want Antonio again and see him and touch him and feel him under his fingers, tongue, teeth.  
Breath against breath, like naked souls in the heat.  
He wanted him close, so close he could have felt pain in being held by his hands, shivers and bruises would have rode on his skin.  
His body was aching for more action, for more of the intoxicating flavour, the addicting sounds that Antonio made - his moans, his moans resounded different from all the others, crystalline, drenched in lust and still so clear ; Francis would have sucked them all, drink them, if he could, let his throat swallow Antonio's voice.  
Nobody else could hear him like that.  
Nobody but him, ever again.  
"Fran? All fine?"  
He startled, "Ah, umh, yes, I..."  
"You were having lewd thoughts..."  
"How do you know?"  
Antonio didn't bother to reply, he just eyed Francis and mumbled he knew him enough to tell.  
Yet, even then, he was not able to tell how much lied behind his smirk? How much more he wanted?  
How much need there was of love and why was Antonio blind to that?  
Wasn't it unfair to be known for everything except his core?  
"Fran. - Antonio frowned - What's going on?"  
"...Laura is...?"  
"We were, well, I guess still are, together, but..."  
"Doesn't work?"  
Antonio would have liked to reply it would have but he existed and robbed everyone else from his affection, but kept silent.  
"No spark."  
"No spark?"  
"No spark."  
Francis smirked, a bitter glance, "Sparks mean very little when they can't meet the heart."  
He licks his lips, and Antonio loses traces of his glance on the thick tongue.  
"She is nice, she's just..."  
"...not the one?"  
"Does the one even exist?", Antonio chuckled sadly.  
Francis swallowed and stood up, trying his best to conceal a wave of nausea and loneliness that, gray, dense, submerged his stomach.  
"I think so. - his smile betrays sadness and a subtle anger - But I don't know anymore if it's just about loving or also be loved back in return."  
"But how could someone love without being loved back forever? - Antonio sniffs a bit, then forces himself to laugh, to shake it off - Nobody endures that much."  
Francis blinks slowly, breathing in. He looks somewhere invisible, between the coffee cups but his look seems way beyond, like if it went deeper into matter.  
"It can't be helped nor escaped..."  
He seemed to think that, yes, he tried, he tried so long and so harshly to get over Antonio, to forget him, to let him disappear from his heart.  
But he was the eternal return and their red string of fate was their handcuffs.  
"I don't get it..."  
"That's because you're scared of it.", Francis diagnosed, sipping.  
"Excuse me?"  
"You are always at security distance from stuff. - Francis sighed, returned to sit, drinking - You never let all your defenses down, yourself completely naked. You're too sensitive for that. No heart on the sleeve. - he chuckled - But then you are scared if it's going to be true, if you're going to be truly invested in it, you're going to be horribly hurt."  
"Or maybe you are a masochist."  
"Or maybe both."  
"Both. - Antonio tasted the bitterness on his tongue - Sounds possible."  
Francis nodded, with a knowingly attitude, "There is a subtle pleasure in sufferance."  
"Isn't this exactly the definition of a masochist?"  
"Mh, but I'm not speaking of body, but of heart. A heart that feels sad will always find twins in poetry, comfort in the mood, there will be a voice, a self-righteous, arrogant, voice that will tell a sad heart that it's sensitivity and delicatesse that brought it to that point... - he chuckles, taking a beer from the minibar - I am not sure I'm making sense, but I think you'd get what I mean."  
"If someone can, that's me. - Antonio shook his head - Even when you don't make sense, I always seem to get you."  
Francis smiled, "Yes, it's true."

Bonds of water,  
rushing  
through our fingers,  
covering us  
in salt and sand.  
Your absence leaves me dry.  
But you disappear  
as heat rises,  
leaving my mouth  
open  
in a black gasp.

Francis goes to shower without further comments and Antonio spends the next minutes trying to think about what to say then to avoid being honest, to avoid confessing how he feels. Because knowing he could lose that little he has now leaves him devastated.  
Francis took time, drying himself and coming out of the shower covered in a bathrobe.  
Antonio was partly grateful in not being embarrassingly caught staring at his body, but he also felt left aside, a bit as if Francis was shielding himself.  
"Ah... do you feel like something crazy?"  
Francis lifted an eyebrow, curious, perking his lips a bit out.  
Antonio laughed, "Not involving my ass."  
"Then..."  
"I was contemplating... - Antonio crossed his legs - Ordering Room Service and put all of it on Abel's account."  
"He'll kill us."  
"Only when he notices."  
"Flawed plan, my mastermind. - he chuckled - But I'm in."  
Antonio threw him the menu and let Francis pick what he wanted and the wine, deciding he deserved to be a bit spoiled after the night passed.  
He ran over his body with a long, warm, glance.  
Needing a person like you'd need blood into your veins; is it even possible?  
Can it be essential something that is so different and so difficult?  
But Francis made everything beautiful to him.  
He was like a form of magic, ready to touch and make everything better, raining over it with that charming movement he had, like he was perpetually dancing.  
"God, I want everything."  
"You consumed a bunch yesterday. - Antonio commented, suggestive - You can afford it..."  
Francis gave a small laugh, "I just forgot the last time I had a decent meal, obviously excluding yesterday."  
Antonio stared in a sympathetic look, "Not sure if it makes you feel better, but I do still miss your cooking..."  
"Really?"  
"Really."  
Francis smiled, tenderly, feeling his heart lighter, his chest less burdened by shadows.  
He looked back at his Toni, curling his lips, like a cat, "Well, can Abel afford the crab?"  
"I am sure Kiku can.", Antonio decided, smiling.  
The Spaniard took the hotel room phone and dialed the number, determined to order the bigger amount of food he had in a while.  
Francis' bottom lip trembled, shook by a thought.  
"Toni?"  
"Yes?"  
"I feel I have to be honest with you..."  
Antonio swallowed, tense, not sure if he was ready.  
Francis hesitated a bit more, then tried to find the courage in himself, "I will return to Paris to live next month... and I am not sure how I feel about you and doing this thing while separated."  
Antonio then decided to do something extremely heart-felt, and, like most heartfelt things this one was pretty stupid and reckless.  
"I was thinking of returning to Paris too...", he threw on the table the words and Francis stared a bit in the void like he couldn't decode them.  
"And your degree?"  
"Look, I... - he took a pause - We both know I'm studying law just for my mom, it's what she wanted and the only reason she paid me being in Paris with you in first place..."  
"I guess so, yes..."  
"But what I cared about, - he collected the guts to be honest, but closed his eyes, as to not witness how vulnerably he was jumping into a storm - The thing I wanted was being close to you. I like my life but... what I value the most in life is not exactly school, it's people I love."  
Francis felt his fingers about to tremble and his eyes lingered sweetly on Antonio's mouth, as he wanted to grasp it quickly into his own.  
"Ok, but... what will you do?"  
"Find a job?"  
Francis furrowed his eyebrows, "Why don't you try with the music school?"  
"Pft, c'mon, it wouldn't work."  
"But I like your guitar!"  
"And I like your poetry, but you gave it up."  
Francis scoffed to hide an acid, sharp, sensation of hurt expanding in him.  
"It's not like I can stop writing... I just stopped hoping."  
"Well, it's stupid and fucked up. - Antonio blurted out - You should believe in yourself more, otherwise you'll live in fear."  
"You started to sound like Gilbert..."  
Francis twirled a bit in the room and then let himself fall on the back on the mattress, sinking in the fluffy sheets.  
"Fran? - no answer - Fran."  
The Frenchman gave a small moan to confirm he was listening and Antonio decided to be content with that.  
"Why don't we go out later? Let's run somewhere."  
"Somewhere where?"  
"Wherever you want.", he granted.  
Francis decided to take a moment before replying, weighted down many possibilities but then picked one that made little sense if not to his heart, to which it was the most obvious answer.  
"In a field of weath, I guess."  
Antonio smiled, trying to hold back moved tears by playing with his own lobe.  
"They're not golden yet, though, they need time."  
"How much?"  
"Do you have to go somewhere else any soon?", Antonio commented with a smug smirk that Francis recognized as similar to his and pouted slightly, a tad bit offended.  
"Fuck you."  
"Sounds good to me.", Antonio dared, staring in Francis' eyes.  
The Frenchman caressed Antonio's curls, his dark hair, mumbling between himself how soft it was. Antonio purred against the hand.  
"If you try the music school, I won't give up."  
He said it firmly, honestly, with a naked heart.  
The Spaniard couldn't reply and just nodded, insecure but feeling less lost.  
Francis kissed his head and that seemed just right and beautiful as his wildest dreams.

* * *

 

_Nineteenth Chapter - Under a blue moon_

* * *

 

The thing about dreams is you wake up.  
The thing about waking up is you generally don't want to, because it means good things got washed away and time is nowhere to be as sweet as you wanted it to be.  
Antonio lifted his eyeslids as if they were heavy as stones, unwillingly, gulping bitterness down as a glass of lemonade without sugar.  
He found Francis sleeping next to him, drooling a bit on the pillow, snoring since his nose was basically compressed into the fabric. His unbrushed golden curls were all spread on the bed, yet he looked calm, pacific, his breathing rhythm as regular as a kid's.  
Francis was there, easy to touch, so close, his hand could have run through his hair or on his back.  
He was close, again, he was not a dream. None of it was, not again.  
He had many times thought that maybe, one day, they would have met again, but he never imagined that, he never hoped in that. He thought Francis would have been cold, stingy, deeply in love with a foreigner beauty.  
But there he was, napping next to him, whining a bit, food comatose for too much pasties and crabs.  
Antonio realized stronger than ever before in that moment that nothing changed to him: he still loved Francis and he would have loved him until the end of time.  
He let his finger dance on Francis' arm, to its elbow, playing with his soft blond strands of hair, wondering if in a part of his heart, Francis too was...  
He regretted what he did two years before, but more than it itself he regretted how then he let so much time pass, even if Abel kept trying to invite them both to New Years Eve or Easter dinners, trying, clearly, to push them to talk. And they both refused, stubborn.  
It was almost funny, in a bitter, pathetic sense.  
They were both there, needing love and yet running away from it, as children, who fall and then refuse help.  
They crawled one next to the other, then. Antonio behind Francis, following the curve of his spine, of his bones and hips. They could have stayed like that for years, like the Pompeii couple.  
Would they have been found?  
What would people then say about them or about who they were?  
Would people call them stupid or silly, would people know how desperate they were?  
Their colour mixed well in the afternoon pale light, in the gentle shades of the sheets, as if brown and gold could be one, as the earth and the barney swaying over it.  
Antonio clenched Francis in a hug, the boy stopped snoring, but Antonio didn't give it importance, starting to kiss his back, mole by mole, as if he wanted to connect all the stars in the firmament.  
He held him tight; he felt his skin next to him.  
Francis' skin was most times a bit less warm than his own, but it had a nice temperature, reassuring, calming.  
He hummed, slowly, singing as if it were a secret.  
His voice was a bit too high for the song, but he didn't care, it didn't matter how it sounded in that moment.  
"Many years have passed since those summer days among the fields of barley... See the children run as the sun goes down ... - he paused, sniffing, swallowing bitterness - Among the fields of gold... - his voice cracked - You'll remember me when the west wind moves."  
Francis rose the eyebrow a bit, mumbling, "You can tell the sun in his jealous sky when we walked in fields of gold...", his voice was darker and denser with sleepiness.  
Antonio startled, almost leaving, but Francis put an arm around his, keeping him close, against him, refusing to let him go.  
"Stay here..."  
"I'm sorry, I..."  
"It reminds me of us too... - he grumbled, half-eating the words - Now be a good boy and stop moving, also stop stealing the blanket."  
"Actually, you are the one stealing it."  
"You say steal, I say reclaiming as my territorial jurisdiction.", he mumbled, eyes closed, licking his lips in half-sleepiness.  
Antonio shook his head, giving it up, "Well, aren't you biased?"  
"You say biased, I say..."  
"Oh c'mon!", Antonio laughed and started tickling Francis' belly, making him twitch and scream.  
"No, no, no, not tickle!"  
"Yes, tickle! -Antonio yelled, a mix between a battle cry and a laugh, attacking behind Francis' knees - Tiktiktikitickly tickle!"  
Francis started to cry between laugher, holding onto Antonio and pleading him to stop it.  
Francis held Antonio's wrist, trying to stop him, but rolled over him, laughing more.  
Antonio smelled like summer wine, his smile was a glass too much and his hands the sweet aftertaste. Francis let out a closed mouth grunt of assent, as Antonio's hands fell on his hips, his fingertips riding the veins that led to his crotch.  
He moaned, almost in a dark bellow, Antonio chuckled and bowed, kissing the tip of the hard-on the Frenchman was already showing.  
The Spaniard chuckled, grabbing the girth in his hands and pumping it until Francis couldn't bite his lips anymore and his voice melted in a series of curse words and encouragements.  
Antonio started to kiss Francis' jaw, leaving small bitemarks on it, pulling, letting the teeth sink slightly into the soft skin of the blonde man.  
While stroking Francis' shaft, he could feel the Frenchman bucking his hips slightly, trying to follow the rhythm. Antonio smiled, naughtily.  
"Are you imagining fucking me?"  
Francis nodded, swallowing, and Antonio could feel elation and arousal mix in his stomach and crotch.  
He never saw Francis so openly vulnerable in bed. He always had all the control, always.  
Antonio licked Francis' neck, painting it with his tongue, following the lines of the tense muscles , biting where his neck curved, like a lion into a deer, then cleaning it and sucking.  
Francis suffocated a mild groan, feeling his erection pulsating harder, craving more attention.  
"Ton..."  
Antonio licked Francis' Adam's apple, then sucking right under, which made Francis startle, his feet suddenly arching and tensing. God, it felt good.  
"If you want me to come in, you'll have to slow down.", Francis commented, snarky.  
Antonio seemed to get more tender, but satisfaction was all over his face, "Well, aren't I a natural?"  
"You always were. - Francis kissed him on the lips, moving him, so he slid on the bed and then repeated his kisses on Antonio's chest - You were always very good."  
"Also the first time?"  
"Also the first time."  
"I was afraid you to think about Sadik..."  
"I... I didn't want you to have sex like that... - he frowned - But this doesn't mean I didn't want you."  
"Fran?"  
"Yes?"  
"Less conversation now."  
Francis smiled, smug, proud, raised an eyebrow and started caressing Antonio's hard-on, when the Spaniard stopped him.  
His emerald eyes were nailed at Francis' blue ones, with a utter seriousness, without any mask of joy or optimism, in a naked, raw, honesty.  
It was their pact: if you're vulnerable, I'll be too.  
It was silent, mute, but clear.  
"Let me come from just feeling you inside."  
Francis nodded, kissing him gently on the belly, "Let me relax you a bit before, though..."  
"I thought blunt lewdness aroused you."  
"Oh, it does, but I am not sure if I can afford breaking you."  
He went down on Antonio's ass, licking the circle of muscles of his hole, letting his tongue caress it and penetrate it. Antonio chocked a moan, rocking his head back, feeling the warmth melting him.  
He could almost feel Francis smirking against his ass. Somehow, it was so like him, he couldn't get angry.  
Without stopping his motion, Francis started jerking Antonio's erection, bringing it to complete hardness, so it would have been easier for Antonio to come later. The Spaniard boy, though, seemed to care very little about Francis' plan and just sank his fingers in Francis' hair, pushing him down, more against his anus.  
God, it was so hot he could have burnt. His whole flesh felt on fire.  
Francis' tongue was big, wet, warm, it moved inside him slowly, caressing his walls, relaxing it. Antonio could feel, though, the sense of happiness growing and making him frustrated.  
He arched his spine, trying to push himself more against Francis, to fuck himself on his tongue, needy, half-empty.  
After a moment, he could feel something else, bigger, longer. He whined in protest, but then, as he recognized Francis' fingers moving inside him, ready to hit his prostate, he let out a lewd moan, his jaw dropped.  
He could feel his spine shook by electricity and pleasure, his legs shiver icily, his erection throbbing with a painful lust. He shouted, while Francis entered deeper into him, hitting his prostate with his fingers.  
He could feel him hammering on his sweet spot, then slow down, caress it, tease the rest of his ass, then return to hit it repeatedly.  
Antonio suffocated a moan, biting his lips.  
Francis stopped licking and started kissing around the anus, licking Antonio's inner thigh, shivering and sweaty, shook by lust. Antonio trembled and squirmed, tensing his whole body, as Francis seemed to be naturally driven to every sensitive zone of his body.  
Experience, he guessed. Probably he was not that different from anyone of the others.  
Francis pushed the fourth finger in almost naturally, rubbing against Antonio's prostate until he felt so close his cock was milking precum, red and standing, swollen and in need of relief.  
"Fran..."  
Francis didn't reply, he just pushed his fingers stronger, while his other hand returned on Antonio's crotch, caressing with the palm the whole surface of the shaft.  
"Fran!", he then yelled, impatient.  
Francis rose his lips from the thighs, clearly annoyed, "I'm working here!"  
"Kiss me!"  
"I just licked your butthole...", he sighed, as if he heard the stupidest thing ever.  
Then it hit him: Antonio obviously realized. Antonio didn't care. He looked almost sad, his eyes watery, yet his expression was also lustful, his lips were slightly parted, panting.  
"Toni?"  
Antonio didn't reply, he just pulled Francis closer, kissing him, regardless of everything, filling the Frenchman's mouth with his own tongue, tasting the sweet flavor his mouth had.  
As he moved forward, Francis thrusted slowly into Antonio, substituting the fingers with his cock; Antonio moaned inside Francis' mouth, as he felt the length and girth stretching him more than before, blissfully.  
He rolled his eyes to the ceiling, filled to the brink, his sweet spot hit at every thrust. He clenched Francis' shoulders, sinking nails into it.  
He wanted to keep him close, to nail him, to never let him go again.  
Being separated was too hard: it was living severed, without the soul, open and feeling rain pouring inside his lungs and guts.  
He couldn't bear to be without Francis any longer, he couldn't bear more days away, more lies, more trying to pretend he didn't in the last twenty-two years think about him every day as the biggest person in his life.  
He felt him so deeply, sinking into his flesh, fucking him without any mercy. He enjoyed every second, he felt himself not violated but possessed, not owned but belonging.  
As their tongues entwined, Francis made sure to put more strength in his thrusts, savoring how tight Antonio was getting around him, trying to keep him there, closer inside.  
Antonio passed his fingers through Francis' hair, looking as the strands glow in the dying sunshine, as the afternoon glow dyed them of a dark gold.  
So long, such sweetness.  
How they met, how he smiled- Francis was inside his heart since such a long time, such an awfully long time, under the gold of the weath, under the scorching summer sun, lost between childrens’ laughs.  
He shouted, feeling the deepest push, the hardest slam, coming against Francis' belly and then being followed quickly, as the Frenchman emptied himself inside him, as a tender pearly mark.  
They broke the kiss and Francis smiled to him as if nothing in the world ever were more beautiful, his eyes softened, half-closed, his smile finally honest and fully heart-felt.  
Antonio shivered between those arms.  
"I love you...", he whispered.  
It was too loud for what he meant. He didn't think, he didn't realize Francis would have heard.  
And, as he did, Francis widened his eyes, bewildered, shocked. Antonio panicked, stiffed, tried to add something but a finger pressed on his lips stopped him.  
"I love you too...", Francis said, in a murmured honeyed pitch, before kissing him again, deeply.  
Antonio threw his arms around Francis' neck, keeping him against himself.  
"If you change your mind, I will always fry your churros too much."  
"If you change your mind, then, I'll advice you terrible wines."  
"Don't you dare threaten me to go away."  
"I didn't. - Francis smiled - I couldn't have."  
Antonio clung onto him, as if Francis was a rock in the middle of the ocean, the only safe place, an unmoving spot between sinking sands.  
Antonio caressed Francis hair, trembling.  
Was it real? Was it a dream? Was he going to wake up?  
His eyes ran on Francis' face, as if he had to memorize it all before it vanished. Francis simply smiled, happy without fear, enchanted in a joy he didn't believe possible.  
"Am I dreaming...?"  
"I don't know... - Francis chuckled - Can you dream in two?"  
Antonio's eyes fluttered on him, "I guess..."  
Francis swallowed, then kissed Antonio again, before slowly, sucking tenderly his lips, then more and more eager, on the point of hunger.  
He caressed Antonio's cheek, holding him against his face, smiling in the kiss, happy as a child.  
"Fran?"  
"Yes?"  
"What do we do now?", he whispered.  
Francis recognized fear into Antonio's words: he was afraid to fail again, to do the wrong thing, to break up once again.  
"We... go slowly. - Francis suggests - We go on dates, we go to dinner, we kiss..."  
"And about living in Paris?"  
"I still have our old apartment."  
Antonio chuckled, "It wasn't exactly ours, you know?"  
"To me, it was."  
"Smooth."  
Francis winked, "Did you have doubts about it?"  
"Then, I'll move with you, if you don't mind or don't find it rushed..."  
"Normally it would, but, to be fair, I am sure I'm less used to be without you. - he smiled, weakly - I never really got used to not have you next to me."  
Antonio sniffed, ordering himself not to cry.  
"I'll talk to Laura and then make my luggage and come to you..."  
"Don't you have some days more?"  
"Just one. - he admitted - I have the plane the day after tomorrow, it was the best price."  
"Did your mom count on you sleeping in the airport two nights?"  
"Are you surprised? - he laughed, kissing him quickly - Do you have any plans for our day?"  
"Mmmh... yes, a couple... we could have sex, then have sex, then..."  
"I'm serious!", he laughed.  
Francis smiled, "Why don't we go to take a car drive and go to a small, romantic, city, taste wine, eat stolen flowers of wisteria, kiss with mediaeval castles behind us...?"  
Antonio moaned slowly, "Mh, sounds amazing."  
"I know, it's because it's my plan."  
"...Fran, no."  
Francis smiled, placing a kiss on Antonio's nose,  
"Will you come to Paris soon?"  
"As soon as possible, yes."

Oncoming happiness  
is a promise too sharp,  
it cuts our skin  
as we try,  
badly,  
to handle it.  
A promise of happiness  
is glass  
that cuts and shines  
us.

Antonio kissed Francis' cheek, "One day, I'll get what you think about when you get that dreamy, melancholic expression...", he pouted.  
Francis didn't reply, instead he stood up quickly, getting dressed.  
"What's up?"  
"I was thinking of taking a walk. - he admitted - Come with me."  
"Doesn't sound like a request."  
Francis smiled, "I don't need to, you'll come."  
"Cocky."  
"Won't you?", he lifted an eyebrow, setting a score.  
Antonio nodded, trying to find clothes to go out with.  
"Where do you want to go, at this time?"  
Francis mumbled to himself, in the most well-mannered way he could formulate something that would have made sense out of this.  
"I am not sure... I don't think it matters. I want to be with you, that's all."  
"Is there a river or lake close to this city?"  
"Sure."  
"Let's go there. - Antonio proposed, smiling - I've often envied all the girls you ate ice cream with on the Seine, so, tonight, you're going to treat me."  
Francis smirked, proud, "I see. - he raised an eyebrow, smug - I guess, I can do that."  
Antonio kissed him, biting the bottom lip, pulling it sweetly.  
"You already left traces on the neck. - Francis complained, his voice getting a bit deformed from the position - Ahie..."  
Antonio stopped and laughed, "Take it as a revenge for the hickeys you leave."  
"I mark, it's my thing."  
"Animal."  
Francis' hand reached for Antonio's. He kissed it, back and front, silently. He seemed to need a moment to elaborate something, then, he whispered, "You seem happy, right now..."  
He was.  
Antonio could feel it then, as big as it sounded: they were happy.  
Their chest big, the air light, sun brighter and colours deeper: they were happy.  
He was happy, finally, immensely.  
"C'mon, move! - Antonio said, jumping down from the bed - I was promised an ice cream!"  
Francis looked at him and a memory hit him back, like a tornado of sweetness in the stomach. He smiled.  
"I arrive, I arrive...", he said, fakely annoyed, putting an arm around Antonio's thin hips.  
The memory, though, made him smile even fonder a bit later.  
It was raining that day, heavily, with thunders breaking the sky, their cry shattering it, the light cutting it like glass.  
It was one of the last days of their first summer together, where they wanted to hold dear everything, Francis was spending the evening in his bed, sitting with a big book on his legs, staring outside the unclean window - Uncle Cesare was not extremely fond of chores - and tried not to be scared anymore of thunderstorms, holding the book a bit too tight.  
It's not like he could have read like that anyway, he felt a bit scared.  
Antonio entered without warning, slamming the door behind himself. He sat on Francis bed, holding a big smile.  
"Hey, wanna go out to play?"  
"It's raining...", he pointed out.  
"And...?"  
Francis raised an eyebrow, "I'm not going to fall into this one. We'd get drenched."  
"Oh, c'mon... we can go to the fields or to the Beaver River, it's gonna be cool. Rain makes it cool."  
"I thought you disliked rain..."  
"When it makes things boring, not when it makes them cool.", Antonio claimed, extremely seriously, and Francis was not sure how to tell him he was wrong.  
"The answer is still no.", Francis claimed, calmly.  
"Oh, please! - Antonio begged, exasperated - I am sick of being home."  
Francis sighed, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, "What about we play in? We just pretend we are outside..."  
"Mh. - Antonio didn't seem convinced but let him go - I guess..."  
Francis went down from his bed, closed the book and smiled to Antonio, "So, what did you want to play at?"  
"What if I was a dragon slayer?"  
"Can I be a knight?"  
"Sure. - he rolled his eyes - Why do you like them so much?"  
Francis lowered his look, finding himself wondering. He was not sure and yet that was the factual truth.  
"They are elegant, they always do the right thing... - he paused - They live happily ever after..."  
"What do you mean?"  
"Like... - Francis hid his hurt, pushing it back, while smiling - Saving a princess and all."  
"You can't do that in our game.", Antonio stated, quickly, frowning.  
Francis blinked, confused, "What?"  
Antonio came closer to Francis and repeated, "I don't want you to play you are saving a princess."  
"Why?", Francis seemed to ask with a gleam of curiosity and prejudices unique and special he didn't even know.  
"I'd be jealous.", he claimed, firmly like iron.  
"What?"  
Francis couldn't understand, he just blinked. Something felt warm, but in a weird way, unknown.  
Antonio got slightly annoyed , "I would be jealous!"  
Francis blinked again, coming closer, as if he needed support.  
"Why?", he just asked in a breath.  
Antonio refused to reply and went out of the room without a word, leaving Francis behind, perplexed, confused, yet in wonder.  
Francis, at first, wanted to confront Antonio, but then he found, thinking about his feelings, impossible to deny to himself he did not have the courage to face him about something so delicate like that. But, at the same time, he did want to know, he did need a clarification.  
...and was it bad if he felt happy at the idea of being of such importance?  
Antonio wanted him to belong to him, didn't want to share him. Maybe he shouldn't have been liking it but he did.  
He felt happy, he felt searched for, he felt loved.  
He didn't feel alone.  
For that whole day, just by thinking about it, he knew and felt much much more stronger and happier. He felt he could fly.  
He couldn't ask again what Antonio meant, but it didn't happen so much, because his mother did tell him once something that Francis cherished deeply: we're jealous of those which we find of our same jacket.  
Which meant, he was Antonio's number one.  
And that, that would have made him smile for days, forever probably.  
He hid a bit his cheeks under his hands, smiling, giggling even, happy - he put the blankets over his head, holding his book and a rooster plushie, feeling so satisfied, so complete, just by such a small information.  
Antonio was jealous. Antonio wanted him to himself.  
Francis fell asleep with the biggest of smiles on his face and, the day after, waking up early, rushed to the kitchen and put together chocolate milk, bread, jam and rushed up to Antonio's room, bringing the breakfast on a way too big tray.  
He shook Antonio's shoulder slightly, making him wake up forcefully, but at an angry "What?" he still didn't question himself and declared, proudly, "I brought you breakfast, sir."  
"What are you speaking about?"  
"Well. - he grinned, proud - You're a pirate like Sandokan, right?"  
"...yeah?"  
"He is the Prince of Borneo, so, you see, you too can be a prince. - he bowed, kneeling - ...and if I were your knight, yours and only yours, I wouldn't serve any princess nor lady, for I would have already sworn fidelity to my prince."  
Antonio felt his cheek burning in the most intense red.  
"What do you mean?"  
"You don't have to be jealous. - Francis promised, smiling, looking kindly at Antonio - Now... this pose kind of hurts, so if you could..."  
"Oh! Right! - he stuttered, embarrassed - I... I declare you, Francis Bonnefoy, my knight and accept your services from now on."  
"Thank you, my prince..."  
Antonio then jumped at Francis' neck, holding him tight, making sure he couldn't run away from his hug, keeping their hearts close, so their heartbeats would melt in one.  
"Won't you miss a princess?"  
"A knight can't serve two people. - Francis stated - Also, true love will find another way, if it has to..."  
Francis kissed Antonio's hand to proclaim the ritual finished and his prince of Borneo smiled, proud of him.

 

_Sorry for the delay. These were very sad days and I got sick with influence._   
_Sadly the virus hit my stomach so I've been too sick to write for days y_y, I won't have such delays with the next chapters (20, 21, 22), so we can hope to declare finished this fic in one week ;)_


	10. Chapter 10

_ Notes: Due to my new job, I'll give you chapters 20 and 21 this week, 22 as last next week! :) I'm sorry for the inconvenience; I'll make sure it make it longer ;) _

* * *

 

_Twentieth Chapter – Over the hills_

* * *

 

“You know I love you more.”

No, he didn't know.

And how could he have? No proofs were ever given to him, no signs.

His mother was not an awful person, for sure not cruel and definitively not willingly bitchy; but being a mother never fell under her talents and, truth be told, not even in the things she could do decently.

Gabriela Sofia, or just “Sofia” as uncle Cesare preferred, was delicate and infame in her acts.

Antonio's father left when she still had the feeling she could have loved him for real and that she never forgave. Bitter about life and people leaving hers, she found a boyfriend, whom uncle Cesare loathed, and who was deeply committed to two things in his life: Jesus and Beer.

Antonio was not quite sure how the man could manage to pair those but he didn't show many doubts nor hesitation about it.

Alejandro was just there one day,

He popped up like the first flower from the snow, in silence and brightly undeniable.

He was chewing tobacco in front of the TV, as Antonio returned from school, and then frowned. The man didn't say anything as if he was invisible.

“Are you a thief?”

“That doesn't really make much sense, does it?” he replied, without even staring at him.

As his mom came back from the supermarket, the two went to her room and left it only in the deep night, while Antonio pretended to be soundly asleep.

Alejandro was not introduced officially until eight months later, as he moved in and married Sofia, and Antonio wondered if until then he really was invisible and people never noticed him seeing them.

Then again, also Alejandro was not a bad person.

Antonio was sure his way of making fun of his scrawny look or the way he yelled if he cried or threatened him were just his faults in some way. Even if he didn't understand why nor how.

“He is new at this dad thing. He has to learn. - Antonio's mother said to him one night – He might get scared, you would be, wouldn't you? Imagine if all of a sudden, you had to take care of this brat.”

Antonio paused many times before asking, “Am I a burden?”

“Well, it's not like you are of any help. - his mother crossed arms – Don't make me feel bad about that. Do you think you are easy to take care of?”

Antonio shook his head for the no.

Gabriela Sofia seemed proud.

Antonio decided to live by that principle, following the rule of being of as little disturbance as possible.

For sure, he thought, Alejandro would have noticed and appreciated it.

“He should spend more time with his dad.”

“He can't, you know it!”

“His grandpa, then! I don't care.”

Antonio let the words sink into his stomach and storm in his guts.

He was nine the night he heard that and already knew thunders are not in people's stomachs, but, god, he felt like that, like if bolts were cutting him from the inside.

Alejandro saw him there but didn't comment. He turned and went away.

His mother came to him, crossed her arms as if she was cold and closed the door in front of him. Antonio waited there one hour, hearing yells and then moans, before he understood his mother didn't take just a couple of minutes before comforting him, and went into his room, unable to play, staring at his toys.

His mom came and sat on the bed with a half smile that made Antonio taste iron in his mouth.

“We decided to let you spend some time with uncle Cesare, in the countryside.”

“So I don't bother...”

“Don't play victim with me, Toni, you know I love you the most.”

“No, I don't.”, he admitted in a wet, croaking cry.

Then it burnt.

His cheek was in flames, feeling as if bugs walked on it, scratched and irritated, He cried harder and also his other cheek started to burn, while he could feel the shape of the hand, like coal, swollen, on his face.

His mother stood up, shrieking.

“How can you doubt me?”

Antonio sobbed loudly, not even sure what to say about it. He wanted to rub his eyes, to send the tears away, but he couldn't.

He didn't mean to offend her, obviously, why would he? At six, he just didn't get it, but by then, he did and he felt his stomach all bitter and stingy at night.

When he was younger, he didn't understand where or what was the love his mother spoke about: what was it at that point, since he always came last? Why didn't he get anything? If that was love, he didn't want it.

He didn't like it.

But he knew, for sure, by then, that is was not just that. At nine he understood it was not love that was bad, but his mom who was lying.

He didn't know she could, and so boldly, but that was it. His mom didn't love him more than she loved Alejandro, not even a third of that and she probably would have never had.

He didn't want to hurt her but why was he being lied to?

Why couldn't his mom just say it, clear and loud?

Antonio stared at his hands, still trembling with rage, and felt the air as heavy on his shoulders.

Darkness was thick, but, somehow, when everyone was asleep and silent, Antonio felt free. Without Alejandro or his mother, he felt better.

Was he a bad child? Probably, he figured.

He waited for them to dream, soundly, and didn't move until he could hear Alejandro snoring like a bear; then he climbed the window – it came easy to him, he loved to climb and the many decors and balconies in the building made it an easy task.

It was cloudy, but he didn't notice, because he didn't like to stare at the sky at night. He felt in a coffin and it reminded him of his dad.

He didn't feel like he was running away from home. Obviously he knew that that was his home, but he didn't feel like it was at all.

By all means, to him, he was taking away a burden from his family's shoulders by taking his leave.

He also knew one would need money and that you can't get a job without finishing elementary school, so he figured he would have played the guitar, as uncle Cesare taught him, in bars.

Maybe someone would have adopted him, but if they had a boyfriend and claimed to love him more, he would have refused. He didn't like liars.

“You can't lie to a kid and expect them to never notice. - he mumbled – An adult, would, they just like to believe in the answer they want instead of the one that makes sense”.

Antonio left the house quickly and arrived in the plaza of the small town. It was almost summer but it was still cold and the wind seemed to play with his bones.

He didn't like that, but he didn't like in general how his life had been in the last years so it was hardly something to complain about.

In the square, he waited for the nocturne bus to Madrid, because he knew they rarely control tickers and he had only 20 euros, which he needed to eat until he found a way to get a guitar.

He waited and then got on the 2bN bus, N standing for Night. He liked busses because everyone looked sadder than him on them and he could just pretend to feel great by smiling and nobody would have noticed because nobody knew Alejandro.

When he sat on it, for a while, he didn't think at all, he just listened to music from his mp3, a birthday present from his grandma before she died killed by a hairdryer. She was killed by an andalusian hairdresser, and he didn't know why it mattered but Alejandro said it every time he told the story.

He didn't like Andalusia, but Antonio loved it the most, because it was there where he went to holidays before Alejandro came into their lives and also because they still went there with his mother when she and Alejandro fought heavily. And those were the only times when his mom treated him like one of his friends got treated by their moms: he got ice-creams, his hair ruffled and hugs.

He loved hugs the most.

He felt protected and somewhat circled, safe under a shield.

“You know which name I hate?”

Antonio turned to the granny sitting next to him, “Excuse me?”

“I hate the name José and Lola.”

“How come?”

“My sister stole my boyfriend, when we were twenty.”

Antonio understood something: boyfriends were always a source of complication and he promised himself to never have one.

“I hate Alejandro, 'cause he stole my mom.”

“Moms don't get stolen, usually.” the granny commented, as if she didn't believe him fully.

“Mine did. - Antonio protested, annoyed – She didn't resist at all and she forgot me.”

The old woman nodded. She didn't seem to want to tell him to not run away and Antonio appreciated that. She just handed him some candies and some extra money, which the kid took, looking bewildered and unable to form a complete sentence. 

The granny went down a couple of stops after, when it started raining, and Antonio, seeing the thunders crash in the sky, breaking it like glass, felt as if he was still home.

He tried to catch a glimpse of the stops, because the bus was taking long and he was sure they had to be close to Madrid by then, but going to speak to the driver would have meant risking that he’d ask for the ticket which he didn't have. 

After some minutes of stubborn staring in the dark he saw a sign and stood frozen.

He gasped silently and remained mute, still as ice.

He didn't know what to do nor think by then. He couldn't. His head was blank, empty, a complete void.

He couldn't find a way to run or to make it better.

He fucked up, big time, he took the bus in the wrong direction and he had no idea what to do.

He sat back in his place, trying to calm down, like pretending it didn't happen, while his breath got worse, labored and stiff. He was unmoved, steel against his seat.

What would have happened then?

He suffocated some sighs, keeping a smile on his face.

If he smiled, nobody would have known he was lost, nobody would have known he was scared, nobody would have hurt him.

As the sun rose, pale behind rain, Antonio rushed to the bus door and stooped down at the first stop the bus had, earning a strict glare from the driver, who avoided commenting him. Antonio almost fell on the ground, mud sneezed on his socks and trousers.

It was cold, too cold.

The clouds were white, sickly puffy and round. Antonio looked for shapes in them, but found nothing.

He kept thinking about his mother's words, about how he couldn't miss his dad but would have wanted to – it would have been easy to like one parent and dislike the other or to run to his father and forget Alejandro.

He wanted to forget how loud his shouts sounded, how heavily their hands felt on his face or how unimportant he was in his life, despite the... hate he felt for him.

Yes, hate.

The road was broken and moved, countryside at its fullest, all around were trees full of fruits. 

He could see green barley and wheat waiting to be kissed by the summer sun.

He wondered then if he was like that.

If he was like barley, left abandoned, waiting, desperate and alone, without light.

When will it arrive?

When will sun crash the sky and pour over him?

When would have happiness made him golden?

He wanted to bloom, to shine, to become gold and be loved.

His mother, she wouldn't have found him invisible, right? If he had smiled more, complained less, if he were pure gold.

But he was not and he was, probably, not of much worth.

He laid on the ground, letting go of any strength. Ants walked on his knees and mud stained all of his clothes, but he didn't care.

He stared at the sky, as rain fell over him.

Wind made the grains dance and he could see them, as waves of green and sadness, tides of immature gems, incomplete.

He wondered if he would have found his sun and when. Or if his destiny was to rot under rain and never become fully good.

Antonio opened his eyes, as the alarm clock reminded him it was morning. He gave a grumpy moan and roll, clenching the blankets, rolling it over himself, as a small animal.

Then he felt half of the bed was cold. He startled, horrified and stood up.

Fran, Fran, where was Francis? Where did he go?

His heart started to race and hurt. He touched around the sheets, trying to catch a bit more of warmth, mouthing words he couldn't think completely.

The heart drummed in his ears and he could feel the blood rushing through his head.

“Fran? - he called, his voice suddenly small – Fran!”

He didn't receive a reply and rushed out of the bed, searching for his clothes, trying to find... on the small wood table there was a small message. He took it in his hands but he was trembling and it fell on the ground, so he had to catch it again, wrinkling it.

He tried not to panic, but his mind refused to focus on the words, forcing him to reread them three time.

 

Cher,

You're so beautiful when you sleep, I didn't dare to wake you up. 

I showered and went for a walk, I missed speaking French and I needed time alone. No, don't panic! I don't need it out of fear or of regret, but out of joy.

And... yes, maybe fear.

Maybe the first sign of happiness is fear, Toni, because, suddenly, something can be lost and leave us devastated.

I do not want to lose you, and so I'm afraid.

And my fear will impose me to be clingy, to claim you as mine, to ask confirms and use the word Love and ask you the same; and I know you would, for me. But I know also you are as scared as me, but because it's hard for you to trust I won't forget you as soon as you're sure.

Maybe you think I'm someone as unstable as the wind, maybe you think I fall in love so easily I do not value it, but I never ever felt something as strong as I do for you and you know how much this means to me.

So, now, I'm taking a walk to digest it all: the sex, the love, the doubts. 

I take a walk to measure earth and heart, sky and the unknown. 

I'm not sure how to say it, because we are two idiots who get afraid so easily, so I propose this: I won't force you to encourage any of my Love speeches or needy fantasies, but you, please, don't think I'll just leave, because I couldn't and I never could.

I’ve loved you since before I knew what Love felt like, I'll love you beyond when we both forget.

You're safe.

I want to get you croissants and we will eat them on the bed, drinking coffee and kissing on the shoulders and neck – I love your skin, I always did, tanned and soft, I would have liked to caress it and bite it all for these long years. And now I will, because I can.

I'll be soon back with breakfast,

<3

Fran

 

Antonio sat back on the bed, keeping the letter between his fingers, considering how tender the orangeish pink of the paper was and how Francis' calligraphy got thinner and more sloping with years.

He wanted to feel safe, he really did. He smiled and held the letter, letting himself fall on the back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

It was painted in a calm yellow.

He smiled.

He closed his eyes and remembered Francis' face over his own, golden curls on the side, like a mane or a crown of sunrays.

Sun always comes, no matter how much time one has to wait. 

That day, as sun arrived, Antonio took the bus back and returned home, where his mother asked why he didn't go to school and repeated he needed to get some discipline and the countryside was a good idea. Alejandro nodded, munching in silence.

Antonio didn't care much.

The sun shone on him in the wheat field before that morning.

He was angry, bitter, unsure, but he was hopeful that one day he would have been kissed by the sun and under it, bloom.

“I was a weird kid... - Antonio mumbled – But I guess we both were...”

And he thanked the God he couldn't believe in for the days in their childhood when they felt lost and alone, because as they met they rushed into each other's company. And he thanked for the pain that made it possible for him to search for Francis and Francis for him.

They found each other in more than a single way.

And that day, under the sun and the rain, before returning to his mothers, he was not sure if he would have found the sun, but he did. His own sun, shining only for him.

He smiled, closing his eyes, falling asleep again on the soft sheets, and waking up again only when Francis returned with a big paper bag of croissant in his hands and a sweet smile.

“Good morning, sleepy head.” he almost sang.

Antonio smiled again, his voice soft and dirty of recent dreams, “Francis...”

“Yes?”

He looked at Francis, trying to be serious, but his face still looked sleepy and his voice sounded drowsy, “Can I ask you one thing?”

“You are doing it right now.” he joked, earning a kick in his stomach by a slightly offended Antonio.

The Spaniard frowned, embarrassed, “The poem that night...”

That night with Sadik and Gilbert and Roderich... that improvised poem that made his eyes tears up and his stomach tied up in envy, then, thinking back on Francis' confession, seemed too tender, too true for Sadik.

“You'll have to be more precise.”

“It's... - he swallowed – It's stupid, but I was thinking maybe that one could have been for me.”

“Statistically probable.” Francis mocked, smug, biting a croissant.

“Fran!”

Francis smiled, bowed on Antonio and, smiling, kissed him. It was sweet and gentle, intimate in a new way, where passion could be suppressed a second and things could just be pure again.

Antonio tasted the marmalade in Francis' mouth, together with his natural sweetness, his warmth. He smiled in the kiss.

“It was for me.”, he claimed, sure, holding Francis against him, crossing his arms around the Blonde's back.

“Yes. - Francis whispered on the verge of their lips, before returning to kiss him – Now...”

 

* * *

 

_Twenty-first Chapter – All you don't know is in the sea_

* * *

 

Arthur stared at Francis coldly, his teeth biting the bottom lip, the glance like he could burn him down to ashes.

“I don't get why you have to move.”

Francis smiled, trying to keep the thing as calm as possible. With Arthur it was way too easy to get angry, annoyed and then make the situation harsher on both sides.

“I am really grateful, Arthur, but I don't think this is my place.”

“What do you plan to do? -he mocked – Find a less paid job in Paris?”

“Maybe. - he replied, getting irritated – Maybe, I don't know, I mean... I could...”

“You don't have the balls to do what you want anyway.”

Francis swallowed that too, “Well, how did your band do lately?”

“Fuck you.”  
“Yeah, fuck you too.” Francis groaned, closing another luggage.

Arthur hesitated. Bitterness swam in his throat.

He wanted to be honest, but he couldn't, who would have been? Francis returned home claiming he was in love, that finally he found his Toni again and that it was the best day of his life.

And Arthur was angry but he knew he waited the last two years doing nothing.

Not that he didn't plan something.

Often, too often, almost every second day, he promised himself to go and confess, to just tell Francis he liked him, because they were opposites and the same somehow. And it never changed.

But then he discovered, every time, in Francis' eyes sadness and the affection of a brother.

Nothing more, nothing less.

But when he spoke about Antonio, then, then he was sparkles and wine and words of love and cheesy love songs and movie tropes.

Antonio, that famous Antonio, sounded nauseating.

And Francis looked so happy speaking about him, Arthur felt like puking every time.

He decided it was okay, though, to let go and think about it as a crush that needed to disappear, like a bad memory that just falls into the sea.

“What makes you think it will work this time?”

“Hm?”

Francis turned, blinking, a box in his hands.

Arthur seemed hurt, anger rising through his skin, “What makes you think it will work this time? It went wrong the other time.”

“We were different...”

“You were the same people and people never change.”

“Some do.”

“You never do.”, he claimed, in a whisper.

Francis frowned, with a sad gleam, “Yes, I did, it just took time.”

Arthur went close to him, hoping the Frenchman would have decoded his honesty, the vulnerability in his words, hoping he wouldn't have needed to be humanly naked for Francis to understand.

His eyes lingered on Francis' mouth as the kiss he couldn't force himself to give,

“Did you ever regret leaving Sadik?”

Francis backed up, sensing something wrong in the thin air.

Catching a spark of Arthur's thoughts was almost impossible; why was he angry then? Why did he seem so offended?

Would he have felt lonely without him in London?

Was it just that?

“No, it was the best choice.”

“In the end, you lost both, though.”

Francis sighed, “It hurt a fucking lot, but I guess I needed it...”

“To come here?” Arthur tried.

Arthur's voice got thinner and thinner, while his shoulders got stiffer, his breath more silent. He wanted to be strong, he wouldn't have let Francis see him crumble.

Not even for him.

Not for anyone.

Francis sighed, a bit worried. He looked at his friend and discovered the saddest of the expressions on his face.

“What do you want to ask for real?”

“Pft! - Arthur scoffed – Nothing!”

Arthur backed up, slightly flustered and suffocated a surprised gasp when Francis held his wrists, unwillingly stroking one of the many scenarios that he always made up.

Francis saw in Arthur's red cheeks and in his shy look that things were getting awkward and let his wrist go, suddenly.

“I-”

“Don't get the wrong idea. - Arthur shouted – I'm just... well, I admit I expected considering how easy you are, you would have hit on me at a certain point, not that I was hoping for it, pah! But it's surprising the fact you didn't, that's it.”

Francis frowned, “Are you hinting that I would just fuck with anything?”

“Uh, hello?, in the time we shared an apartment I saw you sometimes coming home with a different person every night, couple of times different people also in the same evening.”, he pointed out, malicious.

Francis got stiff, “I was going through...”

“I dare to repeat: I don't care. - he snickered – But, I mean, I'm surprised you restrained yourself with me.”

Francis bit his inner cheek, close to snapping.

“Well, it was not hard, considering your face.”

“My face is not half as bad as your personality!”

“My dick must be amazing enough to make up for it, then.”

Arthur almost choked, “No one here has to envy you about it.”

“You, mon cher, don't have a big dick, you just are a huge dick.” he snapped back.

“Do you really think that guy could love you? You're an arrogant prick, nobody would bear you.”  
Francis slammed his luggage on the floor, “Maybe he wouldn't, but he wouldn't insult me like this.”

“He literally did!”

“He won't again.” Francis almost roared.

Arthur clenched his fists, “How can you know? How?”

“Because we both grew up, we... I can't explain, I felt it while we were making love, I...”

“Oh, that makes perfect sense.”

“To me it does!”

“To Hitler, his theories made sense.”

“Are you really compa...”

“Ok, ok, no paradoxes. - Arthur mocked in a grimace – Then Luca thought that Howard the Duck was a great idea for a movie, better? You can't decide stuff like that.”

“How should I decide? - Francis yelled – I know you're not familiar with the concept of trust, but I felt I could trust him, he will stay.”

“How can you know he will accept you, that he won't still think of you as a man whore or slut? - Arthur pointed out, coming closer to Francis, staring directly in his blue eyes – Why would you trust him?”

“I don't have a choice... - he murmured – I love him and I want it to work, so I have to trust him.”

Arthur seemed to get sourer, his chest got tight and he stiffly moved away, more distant.

Francis tried to hug him, but the Brit moved abruptly, stopping him.

“I don't get this at all... trusting someone that much seems like masochism to me.”

“You couldn't understand.”

“He will just hurt you. - he snorted – Don't return whining when he does, I got your junky broken pieces together once already!”

As he said it, he regretted it, seeing his friend hurt, but he couldn't bring himself to deny, out of pride, out of anger and bitterness for not being loved... he felt horrible, but he needed those little knives to put into Francis' skin.

Liking Francis was like having a huge dagger in his heart.

He needed revenge, he needed not to be the most pathetic and hurt.

Francis let those words bury themselves in his chest, while he went out of the apartment quickly, grabbing his luggage and trying not to think.

But the more he imposed himself not to, the more the idea kept knocking on his head and coming to him to torment his mind.

Could Antonio trust him?

He was betting a lot this time, even a job, and even though he didn't truly care about that and was firmly convinced love was the best reason to do anything risky, he still knew, deep down, he would have liked a confirm, an assurance, that Antonio did accept him and love him for who he was.

When they parted, they kissed passionately and sweetly and it didn't even scratch close to Francis' mind a possible worst case scenario.

He was just genuinely happy and he dwelled into that feeling, forgetting that Antonio and him did have some sort of unresolved fights, but none of them truly wanted them, after all.

He couldn't know what would have happened.

He forced himself not to think about it and sank into his seat, sleeping his way to Paris, caught between horrible nightmares and sweaty anxious sensations that crept into his heart.

Love was using him as a chess piece and Francis was not sure he either wanted nor could oppose it.

Being honest, the last days with Antonio had been the most beautiful he had and he was considering if, this time, he shouldn't have reconsidered his position of trust as essential. Maybe Antonio would have never trusted him, maybe he would have, but the point was they both, deeply, needed each other.

Maybe he would have also disliked something with time, as old men.

He sighed, took a notebook and started to write on it, nervously.

 

You awake in me

the abyss

and the spark,

the fresh spring

and the dark,

sticky

ocean.

I lay and rise,

bloom and rot

in the blink

of our kisses.

 

Sun shone glistering on the glass of his water bottle and Francis found himself playing with light and shadows as if he was holding between his fingers a much more delicate equilibrium.

He wanted Antonio in his life, until shadow would have made them both ashes.

He thought back again on the days gone, when they were young, rushing through barley fields – those were peaceful days, often emotions they still didn't know the name of, cherishing inside themselves the sensation that they were, though, undeniable and unforgettable. 

By looking at his poem, he chuckled, remembering a day, one in particular, he held dear.

They used to rush through fields, maybe stealing from some trees, getting so much that it could fill the stomach twice, every fruit that, shiny and round, called for them, tempting and delicious. He was faster, usually, but Antonio was bolder and more used to the roads, knowing them better, since he spent there years, so he often went far before and Francis had to shout his name until Antonio would have replied and stopped, complaining he had his hands full of fruit.

“Why don't you help me?”

“Peaches and cherries stain clothes.”, Francis claimed, proudly.

Antonio glared at him, “If you want to eat, you will carry them too.”

“I'll make you a cream to eat them with, if you bring them home without help...”

“Tempting... - Antonio murmured – For being a boy you do a bunch of girly stuff, it's kinda cool, because I feel I got the best of all the options.”

Francis laughed, “You're funny, so concerned about what is supposed to be what... you should just be yourself.”

“Not a great advice...”

Antonio lowered his look, staring at the dark grown stubbornly.

“Why not?” Francis asked, curious. He didn't like people not following his advices, he found himself a rather mature and wise child and he loved the feeling of attention and importance he got from people following his advices.

“Being myself doesn't usually conquer people, it's a good advice only for people like you.”

“People like me? - Francis suffocated a laugh – You seem just scared.”

“Yeah, well, being yourself doesn't make people like you...”

“It made me like you.” Francis stated, seriously.

Antonio turned, meeting the eyes of the other boy. He looked so honest and serious that Antonio couldn't find in himself anger.

Yes, Francis did like him. Somehow.

And he was glad for that, since he seemed to be the first person to truly like him, but he couldn't avoid thinking that it seemed too good to be true.

“My mom didn't like it...”

“Oh.- Francis frowned – … well, I am not sure how a mothers job is but I don't think she is doing it well.”

“You can't force someone to love who you are, though.” Antonio mumbled, climbing a tree to get more fruit and put it into his shirt.

Francs reflected a bit, playing with a stone nervously, then claimed, fully convinced, “I'll be your mom then!”

“...Fran, you can't be a mom!” Antonio snorted.

“Okay, then dad and mom. Do you have a law also for that?” he asked, snarky, rising an eyebrow.

Antonio laughed, stepping down from the tree, and showing Francis a big smile.

“I'd rather you be something else...”

“Like?”

Francis seemed weird in that moment: his eyes got bigger, with hope, he started playing with his curls and he looked away, almost shyly.

Antonio hid his expression too, deciding not to reply. Francis felt hurt, but decided not to ask any further.

He admitted he wouldn't have minded if Antonio called him more than a friend.

It was such a stupid thought for two eleven years old, obviously, but Francis saw it in a very simple and clear way: he was happy when with Toni, and without him he felt sad and lonely. Maybe it was really too weird, and he imposed himself to forget seeing his friend like that. 

But a warm clench held his heart painfully.

He mumbled a bit by himself, while Antonio walked before him, almost leaving him behind.

“Fran...”

His voice got almost lost in the fresh windy wood, but Francis caught it and walked quicker to reach him.

“Yes?”

“I'm sorry I insulted you, when we met...”

“It's okay...”

“It's not.” Antonio insisted.

Francis seemed to chuckle, “It doesn't matter anymore, Toni...”

“Francis. - Antonio turned serious, too serious for his age – Do you think I'm a bother?”

Francis frowned, “Eh?”

“I'm serious, please!” he almost teared up and the French boy felt small and unsure.

“Okay, okay, but it's hard to... take this seriously... - he gesticulated, confused – You are like the opposite...”

“The opposite?”

Francis nodded, “You're like the cherries. - he stole one from Antonio's shirt and put it in his mouth, right in front of him – You bring summer and you make me happy.”

Antonio started crying.

Loudly, like a child, big, fat, round tears streamed on his face and he sobbed with his mouth open.

Francis panicked and started to ask if he did anything wrong, but he didn't get any reply. Ever.

Antonio just cried there for one hour straight without explanations.

Francis kneeled down and tried to touch him, receiving a small shock that hurt his fingers slightly. He swallowed, not understanding what was going on: his Toni was crying desperately in front of him and didn't want to speak, he was not sure if he did something bad, he missed his mom, he wanted to do the best thing, he...

He bent and hugged Antonio tight, as his mother did with him when he had a nightmare, bringing him close to his chest until the other boy slowly calmed down, his sobs melting into silence.

Antonio's chest was shaken by crying for a while, but then his breath became regular, tender as waves reaching the beach.

“You're alright now... - Francis whispered, holding Antonio – You're alright...”

Antonio sniffed and Francis kissed his forehead and his nose, with the tender clumsiness of a child. Antonio smiled, feeling his face a bit squished under a loud “smooch” and the comforting warmth of a hug.

He kissed Francis cheek and smiled, “Thank you.”

He jumped up and returned to walk, while Francis was still there, caressing his cheek, as if it was sacred, not even sure why it felt suddenly so hot.

“Fran, come or I leave you behind!”

That night, Francis took a notebook and wrote his first poem to Antonio, deleted it a thousand times and rewrote it a thousand times. He poured in it all of his childish heart, hoping to find the words he didn't know, the colours he couldn't see, all the answers he didn't get.

 

You're like the cherries.

I swallowed

your pit,

now I feel sick -

you grow inside,

will my heart burst?

You're like the cherries:

so red

there's nothing redder

than the way

my breath burned

when you smiled

at me.

 

He stared at it, unsatisfied and gave up until the day after.

With time, he almost forgot that sensation and only at fourteen he, again, felt he couldn't lie about Antonio's role in his heart. That cherry red feeling remained misunderstood for a while, before being ready to be eagerly consumed in poetry and in sheets.

Francis chuckled, remembering it, remembering how young and naive he was, hoping to describe all love in a single poem.

Sure, things changed pretty easily and deeply, but some things never did: he still aimed to describe Toni, one day, in a single perfect poem, to catch all of him.

When he entered in their old apartment, Francis felt a nostalgic wind caressing his heart, and sat on the sofa, deciding to sleep there some hours more, waiting for Antonio's arrival.

It was risky.

No, he was not sure that Toni would have accepted him, trusted him, but he needed him since such a long time. After so many years, still, there wasn't a redder thing than how Toni made his breath burn of passion.

But...

What if Arthur was right, after all? What if his father was right?

No, no, he couldn't think like that again, not after those years: he grew up, he got better. He was not so afraid anymore.

He repeated to himself everything was fine, staring at the clock with his eyes wide open.

Somehow, he couldn't stop thinking about the bad possibilities: the fear of losing Antonio rose, strong and undeniable.

He knew, somehow, Arthur was right: he was in pieces, when he went to London, but he never got back together, not really, not fully, until he met Antonio again. He needed Antonio, but he was not sure how to survive the risk of feeling, again, shattered.

A ring shook him awake and Francis almost jumped to the door. He cleaned himself roughly with his hands, fixed his hair a bit, cleaned his throat and went to open. He couldn't wait to kiss, to push Antonio against a wall and bite his tongue and violate his mouth, to let his hands rush on his abdomen and ass, grop-

“Good morning... sorry to intrude...”

In front of him, there was not Antonio, but, instead, a very small woman, with big green eyes and a blond bobcut with a ribbon, utterly cute but... well, not Antonio. Francis frowned, doubtful and perplexed, but then, remembering his good-mannered nature, made an effort to smile nicely and sound kind. 

“Absolutely no problem, miss, I am afraid, though, we are not interested in buying anything...”

“Ah – I am not here for that... - she granted, weakly – I am Lili Zwingli. I need to speak with mister Francis Bonnefoy.”

He recognized the name: Sebastian “Bash” Zwingli was the lawyer of the whole family, a very trusted one. It was not the first time they announced something personally, but usually Lili was more used as PR considering how much better her temperament was than her brother's.

“How can I help you?”

She smiled sympathetically, before murmuring, “Maybe you would like to sit down, it could be quite unpleasant to hear.”

Francis tensed up, “What are you speaking about?”

“The grief for the mourning... - she admitted in her sweet and small voice, as she tried to make the news as nice as possible, but struggling to avoid a sad expression – My condolences...” she concluded, handing him a paper.

Francis took it by force, almost tearing it.

“I... - he could only whisper, in a thin voice, petrified - He felt good two months ago...”

The short woman shook her head, “I know, sadly these events always come unexpectedly...”

Behind them, they heard the dull sound of someone putting suitcases on the floor and turned.

Francis lifted his eyes, shook his head. He didn't have the strength to speak.

Antonio entered by the door, looking around for an explanation, puzzled, “What's going on?”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Twenty-second Chapter – Fields of Gold**

* * *

 

Francis stopped the car, with a dull knack, and turned to Antonio, who, arm crossed in protection, was still staring outside the small window.

Francis swallowed, hoarse, “Next time, you drive. Country roads are going to drive me insane. - he joked, chuckling, but he saw his attempt failed, fell into the void and silence, ignored, and his voice turned sweeter – Toni, do you want to go to a hotel? We can rest a bit and come here tomorrow...”

Antonio denied, “It's fine...”

“I know it's not... - Francis murmured, tenderly – And it doesn't have to be.”

“Let's just... look at the state of this place so we can sell it.” Antonio whispered, unable to even fake a smile.

Francis nodded and they both stepped outside the car. As they stood in the field, the scent of the fresh air, fruits and the mountains welcomed them back, It was reassuring and yet, given the circumstances, melancholic to the point of heartbreak.

Sadness mixed and kneaded the clouds above them. The glorious blue of the sky seemed fragile, about to break.

Antonio looked around, assaulted by the ungraceful, unwelcome memories of childhood. His mother didn't even call nor want to come; Francis' one was busy with a new lover she refused to give details about, oddly.

Francis went to the door and opened it forcefully, pushing it. The house was way dustier than they both remembered as if their uncle hadn’t cleaned in the last few years.

Dust fled all over and sounds crowded, loudly, as if the old house felt violated.

Francis stiffened and straightened his back, while Antonio seemed lost in every detail.

He lived there, in that same house, for years, as his mother refused to take care of him. He remembered uncle Cesare petting his head and promising him he would have never missed his mom until the three of them shared the roof.

And he was right.

But then...

Francis caressed the oak lunch table and grey covered his fingertips. Everywhere in the living room, the smells mixed: old, coffee, cigars, time wasted, ink, earth, cheap wine.

“Do you think he missed us?”

“I think so.” Francis confessed in a whisper.

Antonio stared at the stairs that lead to the upper floor and then his glance fell on Francis. Antonio held his lover's hand, silently, tightly, caressing his fingers and wondering.

Memories came back to him, violent and beautiful as dawn shattering the night away.

He clenched his hands around Francis' and the blond turned to him, slowly, and kissed his forehead, tenderly.

How could they do it? Selling uncle Cesare's house, the house where they met, fell in love, shared their first kiss: it seemed like a crime.

Antonio shivered, horrified, when he realized they had to, since they couldn't take care of it.

They had to let go.

Antonio sucked his bottom lip, biting it, rubbing away tears. Francis kissed his tears away and smiled at him, caressing his hair.

“Everything will be alright.”

“How? How will it be?”

“We're together.” he said, simply. 

Sure and sweet. Determined and strong. Francis' blue eyes glistered with love, he kissed Antonio's eyelids again and Antonio felt his heart lighter – he could smile and hold Francis and drown in his smell.

Together, together in more than a way, in all the ways it mattered.

Love was a shield to wear against the world, not exposed flesh that can be pierced.

Antonio smiled, promising himself to see Love as Francis did: as strength, not a weakness.

Francis kissed his lips, gently. He bit them slightly, and Antonio smirked, pushing the kiss deeper, invading Francis' mouth with his tongue.

His hands passed through Francis' curls, pulling him close, he grabbed them with arousal mixed with need. Sadness was holding his throat and his heart, his lungs trembled and whetted in need for air. 

And Francis was his air.

He held the Frenchman's neck, keeping him close and searching for his flavour, as intoxicating, deep, it took away the pain and made it sublime.

Tears seemed like crystal pierced by the sunlight.

Francis felt like forbidden obscenities and a comporting perpetual euphoria. His mouth was warm, addicting. There was an inebriated haste in how their touches followed, one after the other, as if the scorching pleasure was never enough.

It was feverish, needy – they clenched each other's wrists and souls.

There was too much that could have separated them and, for the first time fully, they realized they couldn't have survived that.

It felt impossible to even think about it, not then, not ever. They knew it would have been like having their organs taken away, ripped from them. And the pain, the gruesome bloody agony, was not what scared them the most, but the emptiness, the sense of the void – thick, black, eternal – inside them, where once was the other.

Francis kissed Antonio tight, deep. His big tongue caving in the Spaniard's mouth. He could taste his moans, thicker and acuter as his hand went down, opening his jeans and starting to jerk off his erection.

He could feel it hardening in his hands- full, swollen, in need. He raised his eyebrows, smug, flattered by how easy it was to make Antonio subjugate and crumble under him, sexually – even if the bitter sharp feeling of how hard it was to dominate his emotions clacked in the back of his head, making his kiss rougher, more voracious.

They drank and feasted on the time life stole them, gulping, almost suffocating on it.

Antonio closed his eyes, losing himself in the scent and the taste of their kiss, how good it felt, how right – he moved his hips, encouraging Francis' silky and hot hand to his groin. He could feel his heartbeat racing, his knees beginning to abandon resistance.

He let out a squirmy wanton moan as Francis' mouth abandoned his own and went to take care of his cock, deepthroathing it at once.

Antonio screamed, his voice melting in a sloppy, messy moan. He searched for something to hold onto, his legs threatening to make him fall.

Francis smirked, satisfied, proud. Nothing fuelled him as much as the need to possess, to make sure Antonio would belong to him – if time, if death, if anything would have separated them, then, still, Antonio wouldn't have ever found a lover as great as he was, and if his heart or mind would have changed, his body would still have their burning heat, their breathy grunts, carved on its skin.

He wouldn't have been forgotten, he wouldn't have been deleted by time.

He sucked Antonio's cock deeply, feeding off his slutty expressions, drinking his desperate words. His cock was big and thick against his mouth, pulsing and throbbing, inebriating.

Sweat drops fell on the Spaniard's skin, as he shivered, writhed, barely holding back.

Francis' tongue wrapped his cock, tormented his head, alternating the most delicate brush over the tip to sucking the whole shaft greedily and thirstily.

Antonio gasped, feeling the heat pool in his balls, begging for release. He bit his lips, bucketing into Francis' mouth, pushing, sinking into that hot cave and, god, Francis took his head so deep into his throat, Antonio would have come just form how beautifully deformed and lustful Francis' mouth looked, all filled by his dick balls-deep.

Francis felt so hot and soft – Antonio fucked pussies for two years and still couldn't think about any place better than that mouth surrounding his cock. He felt so overwhelmed; about to burst and melt at every suck Francis gave.

When he paused to lick it, to make his tongue dance, evilly, naughtily, over his tip and its hole, Antonio would have liked to slam into his mouth again, pressing that blond head against his loins, and come into him in one whole load.

Francis' teeth tormented the base of the shaft, mixing pain and arousal. Antonio felt his knees weaker and weaker, his mouth by then unravelled in just a series of messy moans.

He arched his back, suffocating a long groan, his cock so hard it was aching with desire. Francis chuckled, swallowed the head, passing his tongue over it, full and round, while he pumped the erection.

Antonio was defenceless by then, he almost fell, holding just onto the wall.

The Frenchman started bobbing his head over and over, until Antonio bent again and pushed his head completely against him, thrusting in him deeply and coming in the deepest part of Francis' throat, making him swallow it all up.

Francis lolled his eyes back, grunting in pleasure when Antonio pressed him fully against his crotch – against his hairs that had his strong scent – and then came into him, careless, filling his mouth. He sucked Antonio's dick clean, as he felt it becoming soft against his palate.

Antonio was still panting, as he muttered, in a whisper, “... bed, I need to lay down...”.

Francis stood up and took Antonio up in his arms – it was not that hard, considering how skinny Antonio was, so even a lanky man like Francis could find him sort of light, but Antonio didn't seem too pleased by how feminine it made him feel and pouted, “I could walk, you know?”

“That sounds boring; also I like your frown.”

Antonio kissed him, urge kicking in, eager, violent. Francis held him closer.

As they walked to the upper part of the house, they passed in front of the room where Cesare used to sleep, and to which they rushed into, in the stormy scary nights, when thunders roared in the summer sky. 

Francis found himself wondering what would have he thought of them, finding love in each other, if he would have found it sick, gross – to him, they were both flesh of his flesh and children above all. But trying for years to forget didn't work and he was sure, in a part of his heart, if he knew how honest they were and how deeply in love, he wouldn't have opposed it.

Antonio must have thought something similar for he clenched Francis' shoulder, holding him tighter.

Love, love always finds a way, they say. Maybe.

Or maybe Love is just stubborn and impossible to extinguish with years, maybe love is just ivy eating the heart of those who feel it.

Maybe Love finds a way neither due to its pureness nor kindness, but due to how animalistic and ferocious it is.

“I love you...” Francis whispered in Antonio's ear, opening the door of his old room.

The Sparniard protested, “Isn't it a bit bad doing it here?”

“Who was the one who wanted the bed, exactly?”

“Me... but...”

“What's wrong?”

“It scares me to need you.”

“I need you too.” Francis promised.

Antonio sighed, heavily, “I feel if we do it here, it will all collide: all the times, all the loves, all the webs... I feel if you go away after this, then it will all crumble and collapse and I will never get over that.”

It was rare for Antonio to be that honest, his voice vibrated with a note of deep, bitter fear. 

Francis kissed his forehead, putting him on the bed, and smiled, their eyes lost in the ones of the other – blue and green interlocked and melted, as the sea.

Francis voice got huskier, lower, with desire and seriousness, “Then all I have to do is never go away, right?”

“Never is a very long time.”

Francis laughed, “Toni, without you, even a second is an awfully long time.”

“Dork.”

Antonio pulled Francis closer by the shirt, kissing him. Devouring each other's smell, making out until breath faded from their lungs, sinking into each other's hearts, they lost themselves.

Francis threw Antonio's jeans away and started licking his nipples, making him arch at every touch of his tongue or nibble with his teeth – Antonio sank his fingers in Francis back, like fuel on fire – every kiss became briefer with urge, deeper with greed. The need to taste, to devour and to possess was burning on their skin.

“Please, - Antonio begged, wanting to scream, but all that came out was a breathy mutter reduced almost to just mouthing, his heart racing in his ears like an obsessive melody – Please, move.”

Francis chuckled, mixing nervousness and arousal, “Is this a good moment to remind you I left the lube in the car?”

“Didn't Cesare keep olive oil in our wardrobes since we went away?” Antonio proposed, half-desperate and horrified at the alternative of taking that raw inside.

He sighed in relief as Francis quickly looked and found a bottle of oil, “Do you want to do ancient Greek role-play now that we are at it?”

“I think giving a new meaning to toss the salad will be enough for today.”

Francis looked sadly to the ceiling, “Ah, I love a man without fantasy!”

Antonio rubbed a leg under Francis' crotch, teasing his erection, already visibly constricted by the trousers and asking to be freed. Francis panted slightly, biting his bottom lip, enjoying the scene of Antonio's legs rubbing against his bulge. He stiffened, and poured some oil on his hand and on the Spaniard's dick, moving up and down the shaft.

Antonio arched his back, moving his hips in a moaned invitation.

Francis bowed, kissing his lover's inner thighs, licking them, sucking gently behind the knee – Antonio stiffened and squirmed, interested – tracing with his saliva, savouring the places where his skin was softer and more sensitive, while his wet fingers started entering Antonio's delicious butt, one after the other.

At the third, Francis started moving in and out, quickly, without stopping his calm, soft, operation of kissing and sucking, leaving dark red and purple hickeys on the caramel skin of the Spaniard. Antonio screamed in pleasure as his prostate started getting hammered by Francis' fingers, which passed from a gentle rub to quicker and quicker hits, making the pressure stiff his cock completely.

“More, more!”

Francis smirked, pleased, giving still a couple of kisses to Antonio's soft thigh, before granting him the pleaded satisfaction.

He poured more oil on his dick, pumping it to full hardness, before sinking into Antonio as if he fell in the sea. Antonio bit his lips, welcoming Francis' erection with greed, craving that double feeling of being turned to light and destroyed at the same time.

Francis puffed a lewd, “Tight...” before thrusting, dry and strong. 

White sparks of pleasure raced up his spine, making Antonio moan loudly. Gasps escaped from his agape mouth, while he could feel Francis tearing him loose, making space inside him and thrusting harder at each movement.

Francis moved closer, slamming into Antonio's soft flesh, as deep as he could, balls-deep, mercilessly, and started torturing his soft neck with his lips, sucking while thrusting.

Antonio shouted, sticking his tongue out in need of air. His eyes looked almost absent, lost in pleasure, as Francis' cock's head pressured against his prostate, grinding into it with obscene stubbornness. 

He tensed to the point he felt as if he was going to break, like the chord of a violin, tense to it’s limit. Francis placed tender, honeyed kisses on Antonio's collarbones, but that couldn't relax him. His walls were pulled to their limits, Francis still growing inside him, pushing all his spots.

At every thrust, he felt full, fucked up to his brain, and as Francis moved a bit out, he was left feeling empty, needy, desperate to be filled again.

Francis' rhythm got quicker, though, as his grunts grew lower, darker, hoarser in desire, and his thrusts rougher. Antonio stopped moaning soon after, his throat ran dry and he could only gasp and let out empty air.

Francis' lips sucking him, his hips slamming into him, his hands bruising and caressing his waist: Antonio felt the overload shake him raw.

The Spaniard threw his arms around Francis' neck and panted, in his ear, “Don't go... never go...”

Francis kissed him, deeply, thrusting faster and rougher, slamming into Antonio's prostate, making him burst in a screamed orgasm.

Antonio was still struggling to breathe, his chest moving quickly, as his eyes met Francis' blue ones and the Frenchman whispered to him, “Never.” before returning to move into him enough to come, squirting his come into his lover and falling next to him, exhausted.

They held hands, falling asleep soundly, immersed in the soft scent of the room that saw their first kiss.

Some hours later, Antonio exited from the bed, carefully trying not to wake Francis up, and moved to the window. The curtains were stained with yellow and the wood had gotten cracked, through the dirty glass the light filtered lazily.

He caressed the wooden frame, looking down to the big dry garden in which uncared for vegetables started to abandon themselves to earth.

That house used to be much more.

He stared at the constellations they painted on the ceiling, still there, gorgeous and shining in their hearts as the first day.

“Prince of Borneo...”

Antonio turned, seeing Francis smiling at him, post-coitum smug smirk with that look like the world was only delimited to that bed and nothing outside of it could touch him.

Antonio smiled, “Yes, my knight?”

“If now I lay with you, does this make me a prince too?”

“A princess, I suppose.” he giggled.

Francis raised an eyebrow and a weird grin appeared on his lips, “You get fucked by a princess...”

“And very well. - Antonio admitted, returning to bed and coming close to Francis – My princess has a big cock that fills me completely.”

Francis pinched Antonio's nose, smirking, “That's not how a prince is supposed to talk. How undignified.”

Antonio stared into his deep blue eyes, “Kiss me.”

Francis' lips tasted like sleep and pleasure, sweet, full and dense at the touch. He felt good, he always did. Soul and body made to love.

No wonder he needed that so much... he seemed to be born for it.

Antonio smiled into their kiss, welcoming Francis' big tongue in his mouth, overwhelmed by how perfect everything could feel, even when their lives trembled so fragile in such mournful days, with rain knocking on their hearts. What was he made for, he wondered, and how would have roads led him to it?

He didn't have the faith in love Francis had, he didn't have that feeling that love would heal every wound.

What he had was an open heart, but that often made him feel lost.

Francis caressed Antonio's hair, softly, “Are you here?”

“Ah... sorry... - he sighed – I'm... thinking about stuff.”

Francis frowned, his eyebrows knitted, “Stuff?”

His voice rang broken and frail. He swallowed bitterness.

“Fran?”

He lowered his eyes, words heavy in his mouth. They tasted like mercury and blood, like honey that hides the flavour of rot.

His eyes were stained with a profound sadness, as if the fresh sea of his eyes became the dark depth of the Mariana Trench. His heart was open, his brain ready to memorize the most hurtful response.

Ready to be hurt, ready to pretend he was not.

“...do you...”

Antonio's eyes trembled and widened in fear.

Was it going to end?

Was his dream going to break?

Would he have to bury his present heart together with his past one in that house at the forgotten side of the world?

“...do you trust me?” he whispered, almost in a breath.

Antonio blinked.

Francis looked as vulnerable as a child in front of him, his wrists trembled and his eyes were shining and watery. His lips quivered in a grimace of fear.

Antonio smiled and kissed him, holding his hair between his fingers, sharing their breath, letting his mouth be home for Francis and Francis' for him.

He could feel Francis lungs against his own, ribcages shivering under the pale light, he could hear the other’s heartbeat as if it were his own and their heats melted.

“Yes...” he murmured into the kiss.

Francis pulled Antonio closer, hands behind, on his back, scratching his skin lightly, leaving tracks of red and desire. His mouth abandoned Antonio's to move on his shoulder, sinking his teeth in the soft flesh.

Antonio lolled his head back, letting out a low, dense moan from the gutters of his soul.

He smiled, biting his lips, letting shocks of arousal flow through his veins as Francis started biting his nipples, torturing them with his tongue, pressing and caressing them. Antonio started moving his hips, inviting his lover to work on something under.

Hasty, Francis dug his fingers into Antonio's skin, needing more of that heat, of that absolute contact with heaven and hell. His tongue returned to the other's mouth in a messy, hungry kiss. 

“You feel so good...”

“You more, _cher_.”

“I love you.”

“Me too...”

Their hands started running on their aching skins, craving for contact, but, suddenly, Antonio froze, staring at a small crack in the wall. He gulped slowly, his voice getting hoarse and heavy in sadness.

Antonio stared at the sheets, trying to fight it back. His eyes were swollen with tears he didn't cry and words he didn't dare say.

“I don't want to give the house away...”

Francis caressed Antonio's cheek and kissed it, his voice soft as silk, “We don't have to do it, if you don't want...”

“How? We can't be here and we wouldn't be able to afford it.”

“We will, if I start earning money, right?”

Antonio smiled, “Babe, no offence, but linguistic research doe... wait, you mean?”

“I... had a half-contract before leaving London. I might manage to publish a book.”

Antonio put his hands in front of his mouth, mesmerized and happy. His eyes shone with utter joy as he grabbed Francis and kissed him deeply.

“You did it!”

“We- we did it.”

“I want to make love again...” he mumbled, eyes lewdly half-lidded, painting Francis' neck with kisses.

The Frenchman moaned, insinuating his hands on Antonio, searching for his skin, feeding off his shivers and writhes. He held Antonio closer to himself, clenching his tiny waist and thinking about how long he had wanted it, how many days he craved and longed and starved for Antonio's kisses.

He felt as if he was in a dream and every piece finally found its place in the puzzle.

No rush, no fear.

As they shared a greedy kiss, Francis smiled against Antonio's mouth; feeling as if for once, truly, nothing could have broken his happiness. It was a fulfilling sensation on the mouth of his stomach: Antonio was the one.

 

_I found you again_

_and me in you,_

_in your light_

_I discover my rotten_

_heart,_

_my deep sin,_

_and in your_

_darkness_

_ I found my purity. _

_I'm born from your rib,_

_I'm one of your_

_waves,_

_I'm the ashes of the heat_

_of your past dream_

_ and the beacon _

_of your next one._

_I found you again,_

_for the first time._

 

As morning rained over them, sun drowning the wheat under its rays, Antonio felt small again, young and skinny as a broken green branch – Francis smiled against the breeze.

“Granpa loved this hill...”

Antonio turned, puzzled.

“Did you...?”

“He can't hear me now, so I guess I can. - he breathed in – I wish we came back before.”  
“Do you ever want to return back in time?” Antonio asked, his back to Francis, his eyes set on the horizon.

The Frenchman glanced at his lover but didn’t let the other notice. His voice got somehow more serious, lower, less playful. In his throat there was a dirty taste of melancholy.

“No. Not really. - he smiled, curling his lips – I have everything I want, finally.”

Antonio turned, surprised, blinking.

“What do you mean?”

“I feel happy. - Francis commented, smirking, eyes closed to let the breeze play with his hair more, hands now in his pockets and a satisfied look – I have you, I feel inspired, life looks full. I don't miss being a child that much... it was fun, it was sweet, but it was just the first chapter and I had always been waiting for the big climax.”

“You never cared for anything but the best. - Antonio mocked – True love, the most beautiful art, the best food... I always felt you would have just found better...”

“...and then it crossed your mind you were the best?”

“Not really...” he muttered, bitterly.

The gold of the barley seemed to glister and call them back to when they rushed through those fields under the golden waterfall of sunshine, laying on the ground and laughing until their lungs and stomachs hurt.

Francis remembered the first time they did it: how good it felt and how it hurt to have their chest shaken by such deep joy, how unique it felt burning in their veins, how all of a sudden the world seemed to come in place.

He remembered how his hand trembled as he held Antonio's.

“You think we could be like this forever?” Antonio asked him, that day, with the pitch of someone who feels far away from everything, lost in the sea.

“We'd rot... - Francis mumbled – And die.”

“I don't care...”

Francis felt a part of his stomach tangle and strangle his heart, but he faked a loud laugh. So loud, he hoped, it would have broken every pain, every dagger that was still in Antonio's chest.

“I don't want to. - Francis claimed, staring at the sun above them, at the soft wheat bent by the wind – I want to love and live.”

“Why?”

Francis was not sure why that question truly needed an answer, it just seemed plain obvious to him.

But Antonio's voice sounded so upset, he couldn't bring himself to look him in the eyes.

“Because I want to feel it.”

Antonio blinked, “And then? When it will go away?”

“It won't.”

“Everything does...”

Francis pouted, offended, and almost yelled, “No, it won't.”

Silence followed, heavy, and he could feel Antonio suffocating sobs to be silent next to him. He clenched his hand, grasping the one of the Spaniard strongly.

“I won't...” he promised, honeyed.

Antonio sniffed, “Never?”

“I tend to be stubborn and clingy, remember? - Francis breathed in the fresh summer wind, letting in the scent of poppies and fruit – I'll be with you forever.”

“Forever is a big word.”

Francis laughed, brightly. His laugh was like music to Antonio.

“Doesn't matter if it’s big or not, it's true.” he said, as if it were just that simple. And Antonio believed it was.

Francis layed down on the ground, remembering that moment. The Spaniard looked utmost shocked, as if he were going to get a heart attack.

“Are you laying down with those clothes?”

“Yes...” Francis mumbled, eyes closed, smiling.

Antonio raised an eyebrow, “Did aliens abduct my friend and you're his substitute shell?”

“I know I'll regret saying this in a couple of hours, but it's fine if I stain it...”

“Did you develop a second personality that is the opposite of you? Should I worry? Does your second personality hate cheese and sex? Should I call it Ludwig?”

Francis smiled, looking as satisfied as if he had reached nirvana.

“Lay down here with me...” he asked, gently. His voice was dense and intense; it felt like the caresses of his lips, right before a kiss.

Antonio sighed and obeyed, wondering if he had gone completely insane; but, as he was down, he remembered and found himself softened, his heart relieved.

“...forever, you said, hm?”

“I plan to stick to it.”, Francis caressed the back of Antonio's hand.

“I can't wait to see it...” he smiled, closing his eyes and letting the sound of distant birds flying off to the full sun sing him a calming lullaby.

“These were last season anyway...”

“I see...” Antonio snorted, hugging his love.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Trees' fronds danced in the wind, together with clouds, running through the cerulean sky.

“I told you you should have driven! - Francis protested, stopping the car – You know I loathe this road.”

“Next time!” Antonio promised, half-singing and with zero intention of sticking to it.

“You say so every time...”

“Have we arrived yet?”

“Not yet, potimarron. - Francis turned back to the passenger’s seat, smiling – Papa has to take a break before arriving to the house or he will make Dad end up like Van Gogh.”

Antonio pointed out, “He didn't die in the field, he just got wounded there.”

“Why can't you be the one driving? I hate this road; it's all full of stones and holes...”

“Can I go play?”

Antonio looked at the little girl, sweetly, “Why not?”

“Papa, will you come too?”

Francis sighed, but then smiled and nodded, “I can't leave my princess to play alone. Fairies could kidnap her, she is too pretty.”

Antonio exited the car and helped the small girl out of her children’s seat. Her long hair, the colour of chestnuts, were tied by Francis in two soft satin ribbons and she was wearing a small broderie anglaise white summer dress; he shook his head thinking about how much she was truly a princess to Francis.

They adopted her five years before from Seychelles and, since then life changed quite a bit, becoming more complicated and, above all, more beautiful. 

“Here, Corinne, come.”

He caressed her hair and she reached out for a treat from the candy lunchbox Francis put under her seat. Her smile got immense as she found out she picked a cherry lollipop.

She jumped out of the car and looked around, until Francis picked her up on his shoulders and showed her the countryside from a higher perspective. Her hands could now caress the gorgeous shining gold of the wheat as if the spikes were the surface of the sea. Over her there was just the cupola of the bright sky.

The breeze shook her dress as she bent a bit, holding her father’s head and muttering, “Papa?”  
“Yes, dear?”

“Is this where you and dad fell in love?”

“Yes. - Francis smiled and Antonio couldn't stop from doing the same, hitting Francis' shoulder slightly with his own – At the time, he was already handsome.”

Corinne seemed to ponder over that a bit, confused.

“Have you always loved dad? Like granny and granpa?”

Francis chuckled, “Something like that, I guess...”

Antonio laughed, “In fact, yes, papa and daddy also broke up for a bit and then returned together.”

“Love will always prevail, sweetie.” Francis promised, holding the little legs.

Corinne sighed, a bit disappointed, “Yeah, but...”

“What's wrong?”

“If you were divorced, I would have had double toys! - she sobbed to the sky – Double Christmas and Easter toys!”

Antonio nodded, “That's true...”

Francis pouted, annoyed and a bit hurt, “You two! Love won: this is the most important thing.” he stated, proud, pointing his nose up.

Corinne raised an eyebrow and glanced at Antonio, doubtful, “Has papa always been like this?”

“Seventeen was his worst phase...”

“You two are mean and won't have dessert tonight.” Francis threatened, strictly, but as soon as Corinne put her small hands on his cheek and mumbled a mashed out “Pleaseeee” he gave up.

“When will they come?” Antonio asked, out of the blue, as he remembered.

Francis yawned and put Corinne down, keeping her by the hands, “Abel tomorrow, Kiku needs to take a bit more time...”

“Will uncle Gilbert come too?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Antonio laughed, ruffling his daughter's hair and seeing her laugh, crystalline, breaking the silence of the huge field, like fresh music.

Sure, things changed: he could only work afternoon shifts at the children music school he founded, so he could be home during night, and Francis had to write mostly during night, when Corinne was sleeping, and when they went out with Abel and Kiku they had to spend an awful amount of money in beer for Gilbert who baby-sat and refused any other kind of compensation... but he wouldn't have changed anything.

He was happy.

He had to become naked, exposed in all of his weaknesses, and let love shake him like electricity, he had to suffer and be vulnerable, but he then became happy, truly. And he knew, then, that happiness wouldn't have been possible otherwise, because it comes from struggle.

He looked at Francis, holding the hand of their daughter and smiling to the horizon, and he remembered how they shared a promise as kids, under a sky of painted stars, of eternal love they were both too afraid to speak of out loud.

And then they took courage and they were never alone again.

 


End file.
